


Tales of the Heart

by Essie Essex (Kuroneko0489)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, The Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuroneko0489/pseuds/Essie%20Essex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We hear their secrets through the Heart, but who are they? Now, let us listen to the tales of the citizens of Dunwall in their own words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Grandmother's Dress

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write about some of the Heart quotes, so I'm starting it now. Basically, I'll just pick one that I like and write something about it.
> 
> Feel free to request any heart quotes you would like me to write about. Don't be shy. I'll try my best to make you happy. You can find the quotes at the Dishonored Wiki.

* * *

Female Survivor

_"She has only one dress and wears it to tatters."_

* * *

_  
_   


Tallulah was my grandmother's name. She lived in the Estate District with my grandfather Sutton Ashby, a wealthy businessman. She was beautiful during that time of her life, wearing flowing skirts with frills and lace, her waist cinched into a corset, giving her the figure of a bell. She showed me a painting, once, of when she was younger. She sold most of her possessions after her husband lost his money and then disappeared one day, leaving her with nothing but her personal items and an unborn child. She only kept two items from her old life - the painting and one dress.

I've always had trouble understanding business and numbers, so I don't really know how she and her husband lost their money. I never learned anything fancy like that, but I know how to live as any other common woman does. I cook, I clean, and I work until I feel as though I will collapse.

Now, as the world falls apart around me, I wear my dress. It is gray and riddled with holes and dirt now, as it has lost its youth from years of wear. It used to be a creamy pink, lined with real pearls. My grandmother said that it was a simple dress when she gave it to me, but it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and it was mine.

I remember the first time I wore the dress, trying to step into it without looking clumsy or foolish. People who wear dresses like that never look clumsy or foolish. Every step they take, every time they move their head or an arm, they are elegant, their bodies flowing like a breeze. I was not able to accomplish my goal, hopping on one foot, trying to balance as I stuck my leg into the delicate fabric. I remember telling myself not to tear it, that I would hate myself if I did. Once I got both of my legs into the dress, I pulled it up over my hips, to my waist, on my shoulders. Even in the cracked mirror in front of me, I could see my young grandmother, attending some fancy party with lots of important people. I smiled, swaying my hips and put my arm up as though I were carrying a glass of champagne.

"Good evening," I said to my double. "This is a fine soiree we're at, isn't it... not?" I tried to talk like them, like the aristocrats who drive around in railcars, protected from the impurity of the world.

I reached my hands to the back of the dress, struggling to button it up, each button more difficult to fasten than the next, but I was determined. I wanted to look like a bell, like my grandmother.

"Of course I'd like to dance," I would say, swirling around the room in my brown boots, their soles clogged with ash and dirt. The skirt of my dress opened, like a flower, and I twirled until I was too dizzy to stand. I was so young then, and life had not fully worn me down.

I made a habit of wearing the dress everyday, and every time, I would pretend that I was some rich aristocrat being helped out of my railcar by a gentleman or being waited on by servants.

"Bring me some wine, the white," I'd say. Then I would pretend I was holding a wine glass, sipping from it and laughing politely with my other hand in front of my mouth. I would imagine that my hair was pinned up with curls cascading down my back and that my old boots were tiny, pink slippers.

Pretty soon, it became difficult to take the dress off. I would put it on earlier and earlier in the day, and sure enough, I found myself doing my daily chores, looking like a princess in the house of a pauper. I would try to be careful when I wore the dress, but sometimes I would spill some water on it and then came the soup and the sauces. After a while, the dress was spotted with multicolored stains, but I still wore it, admiring myself in front of the mirror. I would step on it as I bent over and rip it a bit, but it was my only dress, and it was still beautiful. The rips, snags, and stains added up over the years, and the dress is nothing but worn, gray cloth, but I cannot bring myself to give it up. Even after all these years, I still imagine my image in the mirror, the one from the first day I wore the dress. I see myself, elegant as my grandmother once was, and I escape to the old days - her old life.

Samantha is my name. I live in a small apartment, one out of many tucked into the Distillery District. I am not pretty, nor am I young, but when I wear my grandmother's dress, I am the most beautiful woman in the world.


	2. Pup

* * *

Wolfhounds

_"This one is no more than a pup. He'll grow into those paws."_

* * *

_  
_   


I can't wait to grow up.

I can see it now. I'll be the biggest of all the hounds, dashing after biting things, animals and tall men with unknown faces. Everyone will be jealous of me, and I'll order them around. If they don't do what I say, I'll _snap_ at them. I'll be called a "good boy" and patted on the head and given a treat, and then I will go to sleep with the taste of warm blood in my mouth. But, until then, I have to suffer being a pup.

It is time to eat, and I can smell the food. My mouth waters. The other hounds are running, now. They are faster than me, and they push me aside, hurrying to dinner.

"Wait!" I cry, but they do not listen. By the time I get to the food, it is almost all gone. I try to squeeze in between two hounds, and one _snaps_ at me. "I'm hungry, too," I say. Nobody cares. We are all greedy here.

The bigger hounds leave, padding back to their rooms, and I am left with almost nothing. I lick the food morsels from the floor, whimpering.

There is a sharp _crack_ at my back.

"Quiet," he says. He is one of the tall men. They all have the same faces, but their scents are different. There's one I like. He calls me "Pup", and sometimes we talk as he walks me around the den. He tells me I'm a good boy, which makes me glad because nobody else seems to think that. I'm always getting whacked on the nose or kicked in the side for doing something wrong.

"No!" they say. "Bad boy." I've come to learn some of the things that make them angry, and I don't do them anymore, but I cannot keep track of everything. The other hounds seem to know what to do, but all of the words and gestures confuse me.

I try to go over the commands in my head. Which is the one that tells me to attack somebody? There are different words--one for attacking anywhere and another for attacking just the arm. I don't remember them. I think I know the ones for running and walking, and also the one where I return to the tall man. Sometimes they don't even say the word. They just expect us to know. How do I know who to attack and who not to attack? I know I don't attack the tall men, but once a man with a different face broke into the den. I was taking a walk with the nice tall man; he even gave me a treat! But then I saw the man with a different face. I thought, this is it. This is my time to make the tall men proud of me and make the other hounds jealous. I sprinted at the intruder as fast as I could and leaped into the air, clamping my jaws down on his arm. He made a sound. A _loud_ sound. I did not like it, but I could not let go. I could not disappoint the tall men. But then I felt hands pulling me away, and I fell to the ground, and once again heard that word, "NO." The tall man whacked me again and again, on the nose, on the side, everywhere. He scooped me up and threw me into my room, closing the door behind him.

I whimpered then, and the other hounds laughed and called me a pup.

"I am not a pup. I am _not_ a pup," I repeated. I forced myself to stop whimpering and tried growling at the hounds, but that only made them laugh harder.

I hate being small. I feel as though I will never grow up. I want to be like the others. Fast, ferocious, and feared. Nobody will want to mess with me.

Every day, I grow more angry and frustrated. Why can't I do anything right? I tripped over my paws during training today--something that has happened more than once--and I got slapped for it. I can feel a whimper form in my throat as I think about it, but I swallow it down. I can't let the others hear me cry anymore. At training, we bite and rip things, and sometimes we run around. I like the biting best. I imagine the biting thing is one of the other hounds, and I _chomp_ them right on the snout. I can see the blood pouring from them, just like it does with the other animals the tall men make us bite. When we have the animals--a rare treat--we have to do lots of running to catch them. I hate that part. They're always darting from one direction to the next, and I can't keep up. I trip over my paws and tumble. Once I do get it, though, I get to bite it and rip it up. I love how warm and soft it is.

Some of the older hounds go to train in a different area, and today they brag about getting to bite a _real_ tall man, not the biting thing that we usually practice with.

"He had a different face than our tall men, and he made noises when we jumped up to bite him." I overhear part of the story, and the other hounds _ooh_ and _aah._ "He was like the animals, but bigger and _much_ slower," says the hound.

Bigger and slower? Then why do they make us chase after the animals? It's another tall man mystery that I cannot seem to understand. I don't want to listen to the story anymore, so I lie down in the corner of my room, but I hear footsteps.

"How's my Pup doing?" The nice tall man is here, kneeling in front of the door to my room.

"I am not a pup. I am _not_ a pup!" I yell at him.

"Oh, someone's a bit agitated today. Well, you have been doing well at training, so I guess you can't stay a little pup forever." He sighs. "You all grow up so fast. Pretty soon you'll be out there with the other hounds... I should really just get a dog."

I don't know what _that_ means, but he said that I'm doing well and that I'm growing up! I look down at my legs and paws. I don't _look_ like I'm growing up. The others are all still bigger than me.

I am confused, just as always. Maybe I'll know that I'm grown up the day that I understand the tall men, but until then, I am just a pup.


	3. Doug

 

* * *

Lower Watch Guard

  
__"He once found a turtle by the Rudshore Waterfront. He fed it lettuce heads and houseflies."_ _

* * *

I kept my best friend in a box under my bunk. His name was Doug, and he was the greatest pal you could ever ask for. I can remember the first day I met him. I hadn't been in Dunwall for too long and wanted to walk around. I made it to the Rudshore Waterfront and just saw him there all alone. I almost stepped on him, since he was the same color as the ground, but I saw him just in time. He looked just like any turtle; he was brown and had a shell and four legs and a tail. He didn't have any family with him or anything, and he seemed to like me, because he just followed me with his little legs. It took him a while, and finally I just scooped him up and took him with me. There was no use in both of us being alone.

I've always been called a gentle soul, but a job's a job, and the only one I could find was with the City Watch. They call me a " _Lower_ City Watch" guard. I guess that means that we do what the regular City Watch guards tell us to do. Most of us are young, but that's really all we have in common.

The other lower guards are city boys, mostly fresh out of prison. They're tough and mean. Some of them are angry, and others are just plain dead inside. I grew up in the country, where the air is clean and there's plenty of food. You can leave your door unlocked at night and invite strangers into your house for dinner. I was taught to be friendly and polite.

When I first came to the city, looking for work, I tried to talk to some people. Nobody stopped, and some of them were just plain rude. I had never met folks like these. There were so many of them walking around, but they didn't know each other. They were all strangers.

The air was another thing I didn't like. It's thick, and it smells, and the river nearby is full of sludge and garbage. I wanted to leave as soon as I got here, but I held my head up and did what I set out to do.

I'm stuck here, now, and if it weren't for Doug, I don't know if I would have survived this long. All of the teasing and violence and killing really got to me. I always thought people were good, but most of the ones around me were horrible, like the villains in story books.

I lived every day for Doug. I said, "If I'm gone, how will Doug get his food?" I liked to think that Doug would miss me too.

I had to hide him, so the others wouldn't mess with him. I didn't think they'd take kindly to my turtle friend. When my shift was over, I would take his box outside and find someplace empty, where Doug and I could be alone. Usually, I'd gather food for him during the day and hide it in my pocket. Anybody who accidentally reached in there might be horrified to find their hand touching a pile of dead house flies. I got him vegetables, too. Sometimes at the end of the day, I could get some of the wilting lettuce heads from the vendors, as long as I wore my uniform, so I didn't look like some homeless bum.

I think Doug liked the lettuce the most because he could crunch it in his mouth for a while. That was something we had in common. I'd take lettuce over houseflies _any_ day.

When I first found Doug, I didn't know what to feed him. Luckily, there was a veterinarian over by the market. I went to his office, and he told me what to feed a turtle. I wanted him to check Doug out too, you know, to make sure he was healthy, but I couldn't afford to pay for it. Doug seemed happy and healthy enough. He _loved_ to eat. Sometimes I had to leave food in his box for him, and by the time I'd get back, he'd have eaten it all.

I'd been thinking about decorating his box. I imagined it was pretty boring sitting around in a brown box all day, so I wanted to get him something to look at or something to play with. I wasn't sure what turtles liked to play with, though. When he was with me, I'd make him exercise by putting some food down and having him walk to get it. He got pretty fit, and I think he started moving faster, too. I wondered if they held turtle races somewhere. Maybe on one of the other islands. We could've won some money and then I'd never have to push anyone around or kill anyone ever again.

That's right. Killing is part of my job. Mostly, I've killed weepers, but they scream, just like everyone else. Those were the nights that I _really_ needed Doug. After I'd killed a person, I'd just have to talk to someone, and Doug didn't care if I said anything wrong. He just listened and loved me no matter what. Even if I killed a thousand weepers, Doug would have still loved me, and if I cried, Doug wouldn't think any less of me.

Sometimes I wished Doug could talk, so I could hear his problems too. I don't know how many problems turtles have, especially ones that live in boxes, but I'm sure he could have found _something_ to complain about. Maybe he couldn't sleep one night or was thirsty and ran out of water. Maybe he was tired of eating the same food everyday and wanted something different, like apples or cakes. I don't know. Maybe his back itched under his shell, and he couldn't reach it.

Even if there was nothing troubling him, I liked to hold him in my hand and let him crawl on my arm. He couldn't make it past my elbow, but I'd be lying if I said he didn't try hard. He just never wanted to give up. He would move his little legs, lifting himself up, and then he would fall back down again. I usually had to catch him as he fell off of my arm, but when I put him back up there, he just went right to where he was before.

I guess I could've learned something from Doug. He just kept trying no matter what. He didn't care if I told him he couldn't climb my arm. His legs just kept moving.

But maybe all that attitude did was get him into trouble.

I came back from my shift one day. Some of the other boys walked ahead of me, and we all headed into the bunk room. I saw some of them kicking something around, and it just spun as it traveled across the floor. I saw the little moving legs and realized that it was Doug. They had turned him on his shell and were kicking him, like a ball. I remember yelling. I told them to stop, but they just laughed and kicked him harder. He was so _scared._ He had his head buried in his shell and was working his legs so fast. I tried to grab him off the floor, but one of the boys shoved me.

"Oh, is this yours?" he said.

"Yeah, he's mine. Please, give him back." I had tears in my eyes. I just wanted to hold Doug in my palm and feed him some lettuce and tell him that everything was okay.

"Aw," said the boy. "You really want it back, don't you?" I nodded. "Well, I guess, since I'm such a nice person, I'll give it back to you." I remember thanking him and crying, but then I saw his leg go up.

"NO!" I cried as his foot came back down, but there was nothing I could do. I can still hear the _crunch_ his shell made as it shattered. I remember the pieces of it scattering all over the floor. One landed by my feet. The rest of Doug was a mess. His legs were broken. They didn't move anymore. He was just... squished.

My body couldn't decide what emotion to feel. There was anger, despair, regret, self-hatred, nausea. All of it just swirled inside my head. I wanted to cry, I wanted to vomit, but most of all, I wanted to kill that boy. I wanted to throw rocks at him and stick him with my sword, just like we do with the weepers, but instead, I just picked Doug off the floor and held him in my hand, like old times.

I buried him by the Rudshore Waterfront. I hope he was glad to be home. Maybe that's where he wanted to go all along as he climbed my arm. Maybe he was thinking that if he could _just_ make it up there, he would be with his family again.

For me, going home and all of that is just as impossible as climbing my arm was for Doug. Maybe in the end, we both just came back to reality.


	4. Happy Sixth Birthday, Timmy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out our main character, Lenny, likes to talk a lot, and he rambles too, so this one's a bit long. Sorry about that. Please note that I made this M for violence and rape. Nothing too graphic, though. I have to say that I was not too comfortable writing this, so I hope it turned out okay. It makes me nervous.

 

 

 

* * *

City Watch Guard

_"Each time he kills, he sees her face. He can never undo what he did."_

* * *

I been in Dunwall all my life. I lived in a small apartment with my mom and pop 'til I was six. I remember my pop came to me one day just sobbin' like a baby.

"She's gone," he said. "Your mom is gone, Lenny." My mom walked out the door to go shoppin' and never came back. I heard rumors that she had been murdered. I wondered who would murder her. I always remembered her bein' so nice and carin', you know? I don't really recall what she looked like, anymore, but I remember she had this light brown hair that was _real_ curly.

Well, my pop changed after that. Took to drinkin'. And whenever he got angry, he took it out on me, and it wasn't no switch to the legs and back. I'm sayin' I broke several of my bones - ribs, arms, legs, fingers - more than once. I'm sayin' I stayed in bed all day because my eyes was so swollen that I couldn't see nothin'. Whenever I went out, the neighbors would give me this look, like they felt bad for me. They never did nothin' 'bout it, though. I'd hear them talk, sayin' that my pop used to be so nice and decent, but ever since Jane died, he's been a mess. I'd say he was more than that.

After that, I didn't like playin' with my friends no more. They all had these nice families. We were all poor, but they still had their moms and their pops, and I had lost both. I would send wishes to the stars at night, askin' them to bring my mom back, so I could have a family again. I said that little kids were _supposed_ to have families. I asked them to at least just tell me _why_ I couldn't have a mom. I just remember feelin' so alone and angry, too. And I just kept getting angrier as time passed without my wish comin' true.

I took to spendin' my time out in the streets with the orphan boys, stealing and destroyin' stuff. Then one day, my pop up and croaked. I gotta say it was a relief, but I would always sneak into the house to eat his food. Well, first I took to stealin' it, but with all this plague nonsense, the markets started closin' down, and the City Watch was everywhere.

So, me and my orphan pals decide to join the Watch. First we was lower guards, but beatin' weepers is easy enough, so now we're with the big boys in the City Watch, enjoyin' our newfound power.

I gotta say that I wasn't too smart back then. Hell, I ain't that smart now, but I thought that just because I had done a little stealing and destroyed some public property, I could do anything.

Well, about five months ago, my buddies and I, we've just finished our shift about a few hours ago and get started drinkin' by the river. Butch, he's got this strong shit he got from a friend. He don't even know what's in it, but we take turns drinkin' from the glass jar it's in. It burns my throat, but it does the job good. By the time the sun goes down, we're stumblin' down the road, knockin' over trash cans and smashin' bottles.

My buddy, Ralph, stops by a street lantern to take a piss. I gotta go too, but the river's right there, so I make my way to the dock, tryin' not to trip over my own feet. The river's filled with trash, and there's some sort of oily film on top of it. In some places, it's sudsy, like a bubble bath. I dunno what that means, but I don't think water's supposed to look like that. I heard a rumor that the river caught on fire once, but they stopped it 'fore it spread. Imagine that. A _river_ on fire.

Anyways, as I empty my bladder into the river, I start feelin' a little sick at the thought that I'd just eaten fish that came from that water, but if everyone else is doin' it...

I fasten my pants, letting out a good belch from the depths of my belly, 'cause that usually makes me feel better. Ralph and my other pal, Butch, come up behind me.

"You see her?" Ralph says.

"Who?" I ask him. Ralph points, and I see a figure walkin' down the pier. It's a woman, by the looks of it. One with a nice figure, too, and she's got this ugly, brown cloak wrapped around her. Ralph figures it's time for us to use our guard privileges.

"Let's go say, hi," he says. Butch and I laugh, hydrated as hagfish, and head toward her. Butch whistles.

"What'cha doin' out here all alone, baby doll?" Ralph yells.

"Lookin' good, pussycat." I call to her, and she walks faster.

"Shit, she's leavin'," says Ralph. "C'mon." He waves to us and takes off down the dock. Butch and I follow, tauntin' the girl as she starts to run.

"We just wanna say 'hi'," I say between breaths. We're all runnin' full speed now, and with all the booze in my system, I don't feel a goddamn thing. I laugh as the girl trips and falls, right on her face.

"Aw," says Ralph. "Did you hurt yourself? Lemme take a look." The girl struggles to stand and tries to run again, but Ralph gets to her first, tacklin' her from behind. They fall to the ground.

"No, please," she says. Her nose is bleedin', and I can see now that her hair is a dark blonde. It's curly, too. The girl is young, probably in her mid twenties. She screams. "Get off of me!"

"I just wanna have a little fun. Don't you wanna have some fun, too?" Ralph says. Butch and I laugh, cheering him on.

Goddamn, I'm excited. I used to think I'd never get away with anythin' like this, but we're City Watch, now. _We_ make the rules.

I hear fabric rip as Ralph pulls on the girl's blouse, rippin' the buttons off the front. I see them pop off and go rollin' everywhere.

"Hold her," says Ralph, so I go around and pin her arms down. She's cryin' now, like _really_ cryin'. Just screamin'. "Shut your mouth," Ralph says, givin' her a good slap across the face. He's pullin' her pants down now, and I can see she has a nice body. She's real strong, though, and I gotta hold her arms tight.

Ralph's on her now. I never watched a fella do a broad before - I like my privacy - but I dunno if it's the hooch or what. I don't feel weird about it or nothin'.

It's my turn now. The girl's stopped strugglin', so I don't gotta worry 'bout gettin' kicked or nothin'. Butch holds her down anyways, and I get started on her. There's something excitin' about it. I done plenty of broads before, but this is - I just feel so powerful. This girl, she don't even wanna be with me, but she's just takin' it 'cause we're stronger. It's the fear in her eyes, too. She don't know what's gonna happen to her. We're the ones who decide what'll happen.

Butch goes next, and then we all stand around her in a circle. This girl don't move at all. She just lays there on the ground, just waitin' for us to do somethin'. Ralph grabs her hair and yanks her up. She's hollerin' again. I can make out "please", but that's about it. We shove her around a bit, throwin' her into boxes and stuff, and she's just cryin'. I don't even know what I'm feelin'. I'm just havin' fun, as usual.

Ralph starts gettin' a little rough, and she lands hard on her arm. She's _really_ screamin' now, and I worry she's bein' too loud. Ralph and Butch don't notice, though. Ralph picks her up again, and she's decided she's had enough. One of her arms ain't hangin' right, but she uses her other one, tryin' to slap him. Ralph shields his face.

"Stop that, you crazy bitch," he says. Then she just _kicks_ him, and _he_ 's the one howlin' now. She's runnin', and we're chasin' after her. She ain't movin' fast 'cause her ankle's hurt, but she jumps over a box, anyways. Well, she lands wrong, and I hear a loud crack and she goes stumblin' forward.

That's when I see the pole. Her head hits the metal street lantern pole and just splits open like a fuckin' fruit. I mean, it just - So, we rush over to her.

"Is she dead?" Butch says. I can see she's still breathin', but her head's twisted.

"We went too far," I say. "Shit, what are we gonna do? She's gonna die."

"We get rid of her fuckin' body, that's what," says Ralph. I look at Butch, and he's lookin' scared.

Now, this is before all that curfew nonsense, so we can't even say we killed her 'cause of that.

I see Ralph walkin' around, and he picks up this brick.

"My baby!" I hear. Shit, she can still talk. She sounds like she's got a mouthful of gargle, but I still know what she's sayin'. "No! My baby," she cries. "Please save my baby."

Now, I don't know how to save no babies, and by the looks of her, she ain't been pregnant that long. Before I can say anythin' to her, Ralph hits her on the head with the brick. Then he does it again - and then again. He's just poundin' on her skull, and she's still not dyin'. I don't wanna watch this. I don't wanna see this. She's still alive with these awful moans comin' from her mouth. Her skull's cracked and bleedin', and Ralph keeps hittin' her.

"Die already, bitch," he says. Her eyes are still open, and she's still breathin'. She's not makin' noise anymore, though. There's blood in her hair, and it looks red and matted.

"Kill her," I yell.

"I'm tryin'," says Ralph. I wish we had our swords, but we leave our weapons in the guard's barracks when we're off duty.

"Just put her in the river," Butch says. I look at the girl and then nod. We gotta do _somethin'_ else.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll put her in the river," Ralph says. "Someone look for somethin' heavy and some rope, and someone else help me get her off the ground." I'm the first to leave, turning away and pretendin' to search the docks. I feel sick.

I find part of an old boat engine lyin' on the dock and drag it back to Ralph and Butch. There's plenty of rope. First, we tie the rope to the engine.

"Make it tight," says Ralph.

"I know," I say, 'cause I ain't _that_ fuckin' dumb. Once that's done, we tie the rope to the body. The engine's by the river now, and we stand in front of it.

"Well," Ralph says, grinnin' like a goddamn clown. "This was fun." He looks at the body. "And I'll say this - even though you were knocked up, you still had a great pussy." He laughs like we're not about to kill someone. I don't hear any laughter from Butch, and I ain't laughin' neither. It ain't like we never killed someone. We gotta do it sometimes on the job, but those people are dumb criminals or weepers, and - more recently - people breakin' curfew, though, I'm havin' a hard time even doin' _that_ now.

"Oh, c'mon," Ralph says. "We'll get away with it, now. She'll be dead, so she can't tell nobody." The girl twitches. I'm done with this. I push the engine with my foot, and Butch helps. It drops into the water with a loud _thunk_ , and the rope and body follow. I look down as she sinks and see her glassy eyes and the bubbles comin' from her mouth and nose as she breathes in that filthy river water. I add to the filth shortly after, by vomitin' into it.

We pour some buckets of water on the blood to clean up, and I pick up her cloak. There's somethin' wrapped in it. It's just some folded paper, so I'm about to throw it away, but - I end up opening it.

 

_Grace,_

_Please don't forget to be back early so we can surprise Timmy with his birthday present, and please buy some candles for the cake. Love you._

_Don_

I shake the cloak, and the candles fall out. There's six of them.

I guess I've figured out the answer to the question I asked the stars all those years ago. It's all just a cycle. There _is_ no reason for it, except that it's happened before.

Timmy'll ask what happened to his mom, and we'll be the only three who know that his precious mommy's rottin' in the river with her head smashed in. She's gettin' eaten by hagfish and soakin' in oil and whatever the hell else is in that river. And that's where she'll be forever. No matter how much you wish or cry, she'll never see her home, or her lovin' husband, or her sweet little boy ever again. She'll stay chained to that engine, just drownin', with no hope, at the bottom of the Wrenhaven.

Happy sixth birthday, Timmy.

 


	5. An Unlikely Officer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is another dark one, and there is some gore. It's not too graphic, though, and mostly I just use a lot of sound noises and onomatopoeia, and I have no idea how the years work in Dunwall, so I picked a number for the year.

* * *

City Watch Officer

_"No one ever mentioned the missing boys. He feels confident he got away with it."_

* * *

 

13th, Month of Darkness, Year 1837

I cannot stand this any longer. I have an itch, and it will not go away. Once more, I am home from work, after having to listen to the mindless rambling and crude jokes of those imbeciles in the City Watch. I despise donning that Officer's uniform every morning. I loathe walking the streets, catching the eyes of passersby, knowing that they think me an idiot whose only talent is beating people on the streets. I detest those moments I must spend standing around with the brutes - whom at _least_ , I get to call my subordinates - when all they know how to do is smoke, drink and laugh at each other's ridiculous jokes. During my walk home, I feel a bit better. At least I am not headed to the barracks, as are most of the other guards. I have my own home where I can be left in peace, closed away from the filth and disease of this city. However, it is not until I take off my uniform and relax in my chair that I finally feel... better than before, but not fully satisfied, no, not at all.

Oh, how at home I was in the Academy, as it was filled with books, keen new minds, and not to mention bodies. The _cadavers_. How I loved working with them. However, it did get boring after a while, and I looked for something new, for cadavers cannot speak. Their organs work no more, and their blood no longer flows. I _itch_ to see the organs, the blood, the skin, the muscles and bones, lungs, eyes, everything, and I want them alive and working. Living and breathing as they go about their continuous labor, existing solely to keep one single being alive. So many of them working together. I wanted to see it all - the miracle of life.

The Academy did not appreciate the miracle, refusing to let me work on live bodies. They said that it was "unethical", despite that old geezer, Sokolov, who _very_ non-discretely, keeps live human subjects. He is important, though, they tell me. His subjects are _essential_ to his work, which is _essential_ to the Empire. Of course they would not understand that my work would be just as essential. How can we understand how to live if we do not know what gives us life?

I chose, instead, to work on stray animals, and my work kept me busy for a while, but then the Academy found out what I had done. I thought they would be proud, but they called me - disturbed, perverted, not _sane_ of mind, and their dear Sokolov was the first to suggest I be expelled. The others followed after.

How could I have stooped so low as to join the City Watch? If there were but _one_ moment in my life during which I was not sane of mind, it would have been when I made the decision to join the Watch.

* * *

14th Month of Darkness, Year 1837

I have had enough of this sham of a life. I will start my studies again, with or without the blessing of the Academy, or anyone for that matter. I am a natural philosopher, not some sludge-headed guard.

* * *

15th, Month of Darkness, Year 1837

I have decided that I will be sending my notes to the Academy, once they have been completed. I believe that my research will be very valuable to them. Then they will regret ever expelling me. I realize what I did wrong before - I did not leave them with anything to make my studies worthwhile. A discovery, a new way of looking at things, something that would leave them speechless, inspiring them to shake my hand and thank me for all my hard work. No, that could not happen when I only took cats and dogs, rats and birds, apart. The Academy cares nothing for these animals. The Academy likes whales and fishes, and they love new animals that have never before been studied. I have no whales or unknown species for them, but the one other animal of which the Academy cannot get enough, is man.

There are plenty of people walking around the city, but most will be missed, and that is a problem for the Academy. If, however, I were to study someone who would not likely be missed, I might be able to come up with some very tempting findings. Something that maybe the Academy would want for themselves. _Then_ , we would see how I would be treated if I showed up at their doors.

But first, I must find my subjects.

* * *

18th, Month of Darkness, Year 1837

What a grand day this has been. I found the perfect subjects. They played in a junkyard and were orphans, by the looks of them. The evening was unusually cold for this time of year, and the water on the ground had started to freeze, making the streets treacherously slippery. The little ones could not have been too warm. They each wore thin jackets and had rags wrapped around their hands to keep their fingers from freezing.

As I approached them, they looked at me warily, but I gave them my best smile and used my charm - which I have had no opportunity to use for quite some time - to win their favor.

There were two boys. One a bit bigger than the other. They both had tangled brown hair, and their faces were filthy. Were they brothers? I did not ask. I did, however, ask their names. Danny and Russell. The names are beautiful to my ears.

They stared at me with wide eyes, and I asked them if they were hungry. Oh yes, they were _very_ hungry. Were they cold? Almost unbearably so. Danny, the smaller one, told me that the orphanage was freezing, as well and that he did not want to go back there to sleep. _How_ perfect.

I took the boys back to my house and lit a fire as soon as we arrived. I had them bathe as I readied dinner. The tub was filthy afterward, but they came out sparkling clean. They ate heartily, telling me that I was the best cook in all of the Empire. I do not like to brag, but my cooking is superb.

They are asleep, now, in the guest room. I watched them for a while and how peaceful they looked. I find myself almost too excited to sleep, for tomorrow, I will be able to see them in a completely different way.

* * *

19th, Month of Darkness, Year 1837

The boys slept the entire night. I locked them in the cellar for a bit after they awoke, feeding them several doses of calomel and then leaving them with nothing but a pail and some napkins, and by nighttime, I could be reasonably assured that their insides had been cleared enough for me to begin my work.

They had been crying, wasting what precious water was left in their bodies. The little one said his insides hurt, and he was drooling quite a bit, and the other complained of a headache. I told them that I was a doctor and that I would cure them and to not be frightened because I had locked them away in the cellar. It was for their own good, I said. I needed to keep them safe.

Now, these were not sheltered, domesticated boys. Even though they were still children, they learned to be smart at a young age. It is not always possible to fool boys such as them with calm words and false promises. The little one believed me, but... Russell? was not so sure. He demanded that I release them.

Yes, their names were Danny and Russell. Now I remember.

I soaked two cloths with ether and had the boys breathe into them. They fell into coughing fits, but I kept the rags to their faces until they passed out. Then I prepared them, strapping them onto the table and getting my tools ready. Once they awoke, it was time to start.

I have to say, this study was amazing. I was able to find out so much from those two boys. I saw the organs in action. I saw them twitching, and contracting, and beating, and pulsating. Stars and Spirits, it was _beautiful_. And the _sounds_ they made. The different organs squished and pumped, and the fat and muscle gurgled and sprang, and the blood burbled, and the bones cracked and split, and the brain - oh, the brain _squelched_ as I cut into it, pressing parts of it with my fingers to see which sections of the body they controlled. The vocal chords made the best sounds of all. The screams were primal - _hauntingly_ divine.

The sweat and blood that poured from their bodies were nothing short of ambrosia. How I relished the taste of life upon my tongue. The skin possessed the smoothness of satin combined with the tender softness of angora, and I _must_ mention the dancing, for every part, no matter how small, moved in its own way, as if putting on a show, especially for me. I gave it a standing applause and begged for an encore.

The little one did not oblige me by fulfilling my request, his organs slowing to a stop as the blood leaked from him, but Russell was the star of the show. Another _whole hour_ , I had with him, and I watched every second of the performance right up to the last _twitch_.

I relax now in my study, exhilarated and exhausted. I am nothing short of amazed at the sights I witnessed today, and I pray to the stars that they stay with me in my dreams.

* * *

20th Month of Darkness, Year 1837

I have been thinking that maybe I will not turn in my research to the Academy. They do not deserve it, and if they were to reject my offer, I may be in trouble with the law. I cannot bear the thought of being locked up, having to deal with both the City Watch and filthy street criminals. No, no, I have stored the organs in the cellar, dried out the skin and collected the bones. _They_ are my trophies. _They_ are all I need.

I do feel much better than before. I have no more itching, which is quite an improvement. However, I do worry that the boys may be missed, but I was careful, _and_ they were orphans. Nobody misses orphans. I am simply being paranoid.

I will see if there is any mention of the two boys among the guards when I go back to work tomorrow. If I have not heard anything after a week or so, then the stars look upon me favorably.

* * *

27th, Month of Darkness, Year 1837

The stars shine brightly upon me. Bless them.


	6. Overseer Knows Best

* * *

The Abbey of the Everyman (High Overseer Campbell Mission)

_"Once they are brought here, they never leave. The Overseers always find the guilt they seek."_

* * *

**Overseer Pierce**

I told him. I told him to keep his daughter in line, to not let her studies go unchecked, but he did not listen, and now, I am forced to try her as a heretic. Arthur has always been a dedicated follower of the Abbey, and he worries about his daughter. He asks especially for me when seeking advice, and I have given him much counsel. Still, he did not follow it. He told me that he felt badly for forbidding his daughter to pursue her interests. I told him that it was better that he do it than let her slip and fall into the hands of the Outsider. She will go to the Void, I told him, but I forgot that the average man is weak. That is why we overseers are here, and the common man is not.

Arthur first came to me when his daughter, Caroline, started reading at an early age.

"She writes stories, too," he told me. Already, I could see that the Outsider had his eyes on her, and I warned Arthur, saying that he needed to protect his daughter before it was too late.

"Take the books, paper and pencils away from her," I said. "If you catch her reading anything else but children's tales or any literature approved by the Abbey, or if you find any more stories, beat her, and do it well so that she knows she is wrong. Only good can come of it, for children do not know the difference between right and wrong unless their parents teach it to them. Look at all the bastards on the streets and their immoral behavior. They are undisciplined, their mothers, whores. Your daughter needs you for guidance, and if you must raise your hand to her, she will be all the more better for it. She may not understand now, but she will once she is older and sees the effect the Outsider can have on young, impressionable women."

The consequence of his inaction sits before me. Her dark brown hair is tangled and matted, and her face is pale and streaked with blood. She is thin, _so_ thin, and I can see the shape of her skeleton as she slumps in the chair, the restraints around her wrists and ankles being the only thing holding her up. I restrain her neck, closing the metal tightly around her throat, and she raises her head, trying to rest it on the back of the chair. Her brown eyes are unfocused, and her mouth hangs slightly open. She drooled the last time I held the hot iron to her skin, and I have not wiped it away. She breathes frantically, and I see her chest expand and contract rapidly. Her skin is riddled with slashes and burns, her flesh bruised, and the bones in her fingers, broken. She cried and sobbed, begging me to stop as I brought the mallet down on her hand again and again. Still, she has not learned.

"Do you see, now?" I say. "You have brought this upon yourself with your wickedness. Confess and repent, and you will be set free." I wonder how long it will take her to understand. She is stubborn, a byproduct of the Outsider's influence, damn him.

"Y-you'll b-b-burn mmme," she mumbles. She is afraid. They are _all_ afraid to burn.

"Of course. The fire will cleanse you. It will set your body and spirit free, yanking you from the Outsider's arms," I tell her. "The pain of it will clear your mind, and you will see that I only mean the best for you. The Abbey is meant to protect the people, and we will do this using the cleansing fire." Poor, foolish girl. Even though she faces the consequences of her actions, I cannot help but feel a bit bad for her. Arthur has always told me so much about her over the years. I feel as though I know her, but it is all the more reason to have her burn. What I do is for the best. There are heretics in the Void right now, looking upon her with jealousy.

"J-juss kill mme q-quickly," she begs, tears falling from her eyes.

"No," I say. "The cleansing is best. I made a promise to your father to take good care of you, and I will do all that I can to keep you from falling deeper." She moans, and I take a deep breath. "Now, tell me what you have done wrong. You must have learned something in the time you have been here." I wait silently, hoping that she will answer. "This will only end if you confess."

* * *

**Caroline**

It is raining today. When I try to turn my head up, struggling against the low shackles, I can see a bit of the sky, and on this morning it is a matte gray. The drops of water fall on my head and start to hurt. Are those little pieces of ice rolling between the cobblestones? I can see my breath, and I can't stop shivering. I was taken from my home in the night, and all I have worn for the past month is my thin nightgown. I am filthy, and I should be grateful for the shower, but I cannot find the thankfulness in my heart. The cold has frozen it.

I can hear no other sound but the rain, and it falls harder, soaking my nightgown in ice and running down my bare feet. A few warm drops of saltwater run down my face, and I lower my head, letting them drop to the ground, indistinguishable from the freezing rain.

I hope I die out here. All I want to do is freeze to death or catch a bad bug. Even the plague is better than the future the overseers have planned for me. I used to hope for the overseers to come back and let me go to my cage. I would dream of hot soup and tea, and before that, I dreamt of escape. But all I want now is a quick death, or at least a slow death with little to no pain. Is that so much to ask?

Did you know that whales eat extremely tiny little animals using filters in their mouths? The average Dunwall citizen doesn't. I told that to my dad once, and he laughed, saying that whales were too big to be filled by something so small and that they are known to swallow whole ships. When he came back from seeing Overseer Pierce, he was not laughing anymore. He told me to stop speaking lies and that I should be learning women's work, instead of reading books filled with useless, false information. I had heard it from him before, usually when he returned from seeing the overseers, but after a while, he would forget, and I would be back to reading in no time. He even tried to hit me with a belt at one time. He gave me one lash and then stopped, saying that he couldn't do it to me. Then he collapsed on the floor, crying, saying that he was a bad father. My poor dad. I know he has always tried. He is not like the other men in this city, who are rough and intolerant of any sort of weakness. My dad is kind and soft, and I know he loves me, but he has a hard time dealing with himself. I know he wishes he could change, and I know that he thinks that being kind makes him less of a man. I have tried to talk with him about it a few times, saying that I loved him and knew that he was doing his best and that he was just as good as any other man, but he would only say that he was failing me. He would never talk about himself.

I wonder what my dad is doing now. Does he feel relieved now that the overseers have me? Does he think that they will fix me?

I try to shift my head to take the pressure off my neck. My wrists hurt, too, and my fingers are numb. It doesn't matter, since they don't even work anymore, not since Overseer Pierce smashed them with a mallet, only a few days ago. My fingers are crooked, now, horrible twisted things, like branches on an old tree. My shoulders are crooked, as well, from where my collarbone was snapped. How I cried at the pain, but every time I thought I had experienced the worse pain I had ever felt, the overseers found new ways to prove me wrong.

The food here is awful. It looks as though it has already been chewed. I can't even tell what it is. Sometimes it's greenish-brown mush with chunks, and other times it's brownish-green mush with chunks. I avoid eating, trying to starve myself, but I always give in eventually. I am nothing but a broken skeleton, now, like a badly-made replica of the ones they keep at the Academy. I used to sneak into the library and sometimes prowl my way into some of the classrooms. I wish I could have attended the Academy. I would have loved being a student, but I am a woman, and it is not my place to study natural philosophy or any other academics.

I hear a soft splash behind me and detect wet footsteps approaching. An overseer's robes swish before my face. The Overseer backs up, until I can raise my head enough to see most of his mask.

"Tell me, how have you been these past few days?" he says, mockingly. I don't answer him, and he kicks my shoulder, making me wince.

"It's been cold," I say. "And I feel disgusting." Overseer Pierce chuckles.

"I would have thought that the rain should have helped you with the latter," he says. I do admit that I am glad that the puddle that formed under my knees had been washed away, but it can't compare with the cold.

"Shall I leave you out here another few days?" he asks. "You should drink the rain while it's falling, then. I wouldn't want you dying of thirst out here."

"I want to go inside," I hear myself say. I curse myself for giving in.

"Good," says the Overseer. "I had something planned for you, anyway."

I am in the interrogation room, now, and the overseers tighten the clasps around my wrists and ankles. I am familiar with this place, but today I have been introduced to a new kind of pain.

"Confess," says Overseer Pierce, holding the fire poker in front of my face. I can feel its overwhelming warmth as it glows red in front of my eyes. I can't stop sobbing.

"Please, no," I say. "Please."

"Why don't we stick it in her eye?" suggests one of the other overseers.

"No," Pierce snaps. "Get out of here, Jasper. You too, Wells." I hear them leave, and I am alone with Overseer Pierce. "I promised your father that I would take care of you, Caroline," he says. "And that is what I am doing. You must confess. Do you not understand that I am looking out for you?" He is mocking me again. I can just imagine the smirk he wears under that hideous mask. I picture him as an ugly man with warts and doughy wrinkles.

"I have nothing to confess!" I cry. The metal comes down fast on my leg, and I scream, shaking in my chair. He pulls it away, but still, it burns. The pain seems to reach out to every part of my body, and I drool uncontrollably. "Stop, please!" I beg, once I am able to find words again.

"Do you see, now?" He tells me. "You have brought this upon yourself with your wickedness. Confess and repent, and you will be set free." I tell myself that I cannot give in, but what will fighting do but bring more pain? At least if I confess, I'll be allowed to die, but...

"Y-you'll b-b-burn mmme," I say, trying to speak clearly.

"Of course. The fire will cleanse you. It will set your body and spirit free, yanking you from the Outsider's arms," he says to me. "The pain of it will clear your mind, and you will see that I only mean the best for you. The Abbey is meant to protect the people, and we will do this using the cleansing fire."

"J-juss kill mme q-quickly," I cry. The burn on my leg still hurts, and the thought of that feeling over every part of my body makes me feel sick. Please. Please, don't let them burn me. I want to die, but please, not by fire, please. I am weeping.

"No," he says. I can tell that he loves this. He wants to see me burn. "The cleansing is best. I made a promise to your father to take good care of you, and I will do all that I can to keep you from falling deeper." I hate him. I hate all of the overseers. I have done nothing wrong, and they punish me. "Now, tell me what you have done wrong. You must have learned something in the time you have been here." He pauses. "This will only end if you confess."

What do I say? I want this all to end, but I don't want to burn. The only way to have it end is to burn. I can't stop crying, because even though I say I don't know what to do, I am only lying to myself. I know what I must do, and so I will face my fears. After that, it will be over for good.

I force myself to look up at the Overseer. Beneath his mask, his eyes are flat and dull, but I see a sparkle in them, too. He is excited.

I fight with myself. I do not want to give this ugly man what he wants, but I can't fight anymore. He has broken me, and I will do what I must do.

I confess.


	7. Isabelle Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'm not too happy with this one.

* * *

Female Survivor

_"Now the littlest one is sick."_

* * *

She was born three weeks early, and what a difficult birth it was. I started to bleed profusely, and it was believed that I would not live through the birth. I had to make a decision: my baby or me. I have heard what they do to babies when the mother is at risk. The doctor cuts off the baby's limbs and head and extracts it piece by piece. I could never do that to my daughter. I had my belly cut open, and the doctor pulled her from the deep gash under my navel, and miraculously, we both lived.

I named her Isabelle Rose. She was to be my last child, out of five, and she was the most precious of them all. I had four boys, ages fourteen through four. They had just suffered through the death of their father in a _factory accident,_ and I truly thought that things could not get worse. How foolish I was.

It was as if the stars laughed at me, or maybe the Outsider had his cruel eyes on us. Did my family deserve this? Were we tempted in some way by the Outsider?

It all seemed so organized, as if it were planned. First, my oldest fell sick. He was always trying to be such an adult and had truly matured since his father died. He took care of his younger siblings, cooking for them and bathing them when I had to spend long hours at work. Once he took to bed, I stayed home. I lost my job, of course, but I didn't care. I just wanted my child to recover, but things only got worse.

My second child was next, followed by the third. Isabelle was four by this time, and the youngest boy, Mitch, was eight. I remember having them play and sleep in the main room, wanting to keep them separate from the sick children. We slept on mattresses that we put out on the floor.

The Outsider smiled down on me with his coal-black, eyes.

Mitch, my Mitch tried to stay healthy for as long as he could, but he was taken away to the Flooded District, along with all of my other children. They died alone, among the sick. I let my children die in that horrible place. I let them be taken away. I look at Isabelle, and she coughs. I cannot let them take another.

Isabelle has only gotten worse. She sweats and moans all night, and she hardly eats. When she does eat, she vomits most of it back up. It will not be long, now, until she starts to bleed from her eyes. Then they will come and take her, piling her into that train with the sick, both dead and alive, to be abandoned, like garbage.

I look at my beautiful Isabelle, who struggled so much to come into this world. It is unfair that she should have to die after all of that work, but if she must die, then she will die at home, with her mother by her side.

I fill the tub, warming the water only a bit. Isabelle is hardly lucid, but she still recognizes me. She clings to her rag doll that she has had since she was a baby. I pick her up, and she holds the doll, and I take both of them to the tub. Isabelle does not seem to mind that she is still in her clothes when I put her in the bath, and the doll floats on top of the water, soaking in the moisture, until it has turned a dark color. I hug her, and I kiss her, my baby girl. She doesn't understand what I am about to do, and it kills me that she will not understand why I must do it, but it is for the best. The last thing she will see is my face.

I take her shoulders, holding them, stalling, studying my daughter's face. I don't know if I can do this. My vision is blurred, already, and I weep. Isabelle looks at me curiously, but she cannot talk. She seems to smile, though, as if to say, "It's okay, Mommy. Don't cry."

Oh Stars, oh Stars, I will not let the Outsider win. I will play by my own rules. I gently lower Isabelle into the water, pushing her shoulders, until her head hits the bottom. She struggles. Oh, Stars, she's struggling. I can't control my face, now. This is too much, and it takes all of my will to keep holding onto her shoulders. Her eyes are panicked, and bubbles burst from her mouth as she tries to scream. She splashes, and I have to use all of my strength to keep her under the water. Her legs kick up at me, and her arms grab at my wrists. Her eyes look at me, accusingly, as if to say, "Why? Why, Mommy?"

"I'm sorry, baby," I cry. My tears fall into the tub, forgotten in the frantic splashes. Her body slows and weakens as she runs out of breath, and her mouth opens. She reminds me of a fish, and she breathes in the water, her mouth wide and her eyes open. Soon, she has stopped moving, and I still hold her and weep. My baby girl is dead.

"Don't worry, baby," I say. "Mommy's coming with you."


	8. Sacred River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another short one. I wanted to write something lighter, since the last few have been kind of dark. So, let's hear about the Hounds Pits Pub before Havelock buys it.

 

* * *

Hounds Pits Pub

_"They top off the wine with river water, but eventually someone swoons. Then fresh bottles are fetched from the cellars."_

* * *

_Tap Tap Tap_

 

Hey, is this thing on?

Well, My, uh - _ahem_

My name is Brian Turner. I'm fourteen years old, and I work at the Hounds Pits Pub. Now, I know I shouldn't be sayin' this, and I don't mean to complain or talk bad of my elders, but I hate that I serve anything that's made here at this pub. Sometimes, when I bring people their drinks, I just wanna snatch it away and tell 'em it's full of poison. Every mornin', Mrs. Adams makes me top off the wine with river water. Now, if you've ever seen the Wrenhaven, you'll know why it upsets me so much. Sure, most of the people who come in here are drunkards, gamblers, and thieves, but we got workin' folk who come in here too, and I imagine they've got families an' things like that. We shouldn't go chargin' 'em to make 'em sick.

You might think that river water's harmless, but what comes outta that river isn't water anymore. First of all, it's cloudy and black, and the water feels thick, like juice or somethin'. It's oily, and sudsy, like there's soap in it, and sometimes it even fizzles.

I washed in the river, once, when I was feelin' lazy. I just jumped in, and by the mornin', my skin was red, and it itched too. It was my eyes that hurt the most, and I had to use water from the faucet to rinse 'em out for a while. Even the faucet water comes from the river, but I dunno what they do to it to make it water again.

At the pub, we throw all sorts of stuff in the river. Old, moldy kegs, glass bottles, dog poop, _dogs_ , even people, the ones who die from drinkin' too much or fights. We had one drunk jump in the dog cage. He didn't last too long. There are factories all along the river in this part of the city, and all of them throw their chemicals and oil right into the water. _That's_ the water that we feed our customers, because Mrs. Adams says that faucet water is too expensive to be feedin' to drunks. The river even caught on fire once. I _saw_ it, near one of the factories. I ran over there, and people were sayin' that the water was on fire, and they didn't know what to do to put it out. Well, I guess someone figured it out, because by the mornin', the river was back to normal.

In the mornin', I gotta go outside and fetch buckets of water for the bar. I hate touchin' it. It makes my eyes water. Then I pour the water into the bottles, usin' a funnel. I don't know how people don't notice that there's somethin' different about the wine. There's always little things floatin' in it, hair and stuff. Well, we know when the wine's too watered down, 'cause that's when people start faintin'. We had one big fella smash flat into a table, makin' the whole thing collapse. Everyone laughed, sayin' that he had drank too much, but I knew what it really meant and went to get new bottles.

I don't think I'd drink anything they serve here. I'll sometimes have ale, but I take it from the cellar, not from the bar. Sometimes, I even wonder what's in _that_ , though.

I hope that one day Mrs. Adams'll give this place to me. I'll make it the best pub in this part of the city, servin' nothin' but pure liquor, and wine, and ale, and none of it'll have a drop of river water in it. The customers'll love me, and I'll be the best owner in the history of the Hounds Pits Pub.

I dunno, I've heard some people say that they like drinkin' here, mostly 'cause of the liquor, which I add river water to, as well. I guess the water has an extra... _kick_ to it that makes the liquor here taste better. I can usually add quite a bit of water to the liquor before changin' it. The water itself would probably get you drunk, I reckon. I've never tried it, though, since there's a chance it could just poison me, and that stuff can knock out grown men.

I guess the river can be good for somethin', 'cause I've found a few good things in it over the years. I dunno why people throw money in there, but I've found some coins. I found an audiograph player in there, too, and I like to tinker around with it in my free time. Sometimes, I even record myself talkin' or even singin'. I like to sing, but don't tell anybody. I found a nice, ladies necklace that I gave to the housekeeper, Lydia, for her birthday, after washin' it off, of course. I found a bracelet, too, but it was kinda moldy and tarnished. I gave that one to Mrs. Adams, fresh from the river.

You know, I think it's funny how once you get used to somethin', you don't notice it anymore. We've had some people from out of town come by, and every single one of them tells me that the river stinks. Mrs. Adams hates people like that 'cause we gotta open new bottles of everything for them, since they don't like the taste of the river water. I think they're interestin', and when Mrs. Adams isn't lookin', I ask 'em about where they came from. Most of 'em are from other cities on Gristol, but there was one from Serkonos, and I liked the way he talked. I made sure to give him the good wine and in a clean glass, too. He gave me an extra tip and an old Serkonan coin from before it was a part of the Empire. It's my greatest treasure. I can't imagine how old it is, but I feel like he gave me somethin' real special. I don't even think I asked what his name was, but every night when I'm servin' customers, I wish that he'd come back so we could talk again. I always find myself scannin' the room, makin' sure I didn't miss him.

He told me that the people who lived here before us thought the river was sacret or secred or somethin'. I didn't know what it meant, but I didn't wanna ask him in case he thought I was dumb, but he said that they gave thanks to it or somethin', and they didn't like it if someone threw anything in there. They didn't even touch the water with anythin' but their hands. They used it for bathin' and drinkin', and then they used boats if they wanted to travel down it. We use boats in the river, just like them, but we don't think it's important or anything. We don't keep it clean. Before that, I never even thought of what the river looked like in the old days. Even some of the older folk around here tell me that the river was cleaner when they were my age. So, I guess it didn't take too long for people to turn the river into black sludge. It's not my concern, but sometimes I find stuff like that interestin'. Mrs. Adams says that I shouldn't be usin' my brain so much and wonderin' about things all the time. She says that I'm just a boy, and I don't understand how things are. I'm not sure what she means, but she tells that to me all the time.

The river's always been dirty, since as long as I can remember. I don't think I'd mind if I didn't have to make people drink it, but I guess there's nothin' I can do about it. Mrs. Adams says that with all the factories, the Empire's goin' to some golden age. I dunno what factories have to do with gold, but maybe that's why people are throwin' coins in the river all the time. Maybe I'll throw one back in to help out.


	9. Home

* * *

City Watch Guard

_"He has a woman friend, brutish and ugly as he, but they are kind to each other."_

* * *

I sit up on a ledge overlooking the courtyard behind Dunwall Tower. I'm supposed to be guarding this fancy party, which I now watch from above, but my best female friend, Robin, sneaks in and convinces me to leave my post - not before pocketing a few apricot tartlets - and we climb up onto the ledge together, hiding out behind the bushes.

Robin brought a bottle of whiskey, but we're having too much fun throwing sticks and acorns and whatever else we find on the ground at all the richies down at the party. Robin has to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing too loud after one of my acorns falls straight into some lady's glass of red wine, splashing a bit of crimson liquid on her dress. She screams, 'cause I guess she was startled, and drops the glass, and it goes all over her shoes. Now, _I'm_ the one who has to put my hand over my mouth, and I make eye contact with Robin as our shoulders bounce up and down. The red wine lady's throwing a tantrum, now, talking about how they should cut down all the trees and replace them with flowers, or something like that.

I think with that last acorn, we caught some of the guards' attention. I hope it's one of my buddies, but an officer makes his way toward us, and I pull Robin out of the bushes, taking her by the arm.

"Litchfield, why are you not at your post?" asks the officer. I pull Robin towards me, and she frowns, looking down at the ground.

"I found her in the bushes throwing acorns at the guests, sir. I was just about to throw her out." I tug at Robin's arm, and she whimpers. The officer's still looking us both up and down, but he finally tells me to go ahead. I know I probably should've gone back to my post after that, but I don't even turn to look back as I escort Robin from the party and all the way across town to her house.

The streets are just piling up with corpses, and the rats are everywhere, but somehow the night is still magical, and we hardly notice the disease and decay around us, even as puddles of polluted rainwater and mud splash around our ankles and flies buzz at our faces as we jog across the broken cobblestone.

Robin lives in a little run-down shack in a whole neighborhood of run-down shacks. She's got a lot of cats roaming around outside her house, 'cause she keeps feeding them, and I tell her not to, but she just loves those cats so much. I always thought they were just like rats, but then she introduced me to them. I had never touched a cat before, and I almost felt calmer when I stroked its smooth fur.

Well, _all_ the cats are awake, now, climbing all over the outside of the shack, and we hurry inside, closing the door tight behind us, so the animals won't follow.

The place isn't much. There's a little kitchen area, and a table with chairs, and a couch, and a bed. Robin doesn't really care much for decorations and all that rubbish. That's one reason why I like her so much. She just looks like her normal self all the time. She isn't dirty or messy, but she doesn't wear flowery perfume or style her hair. If she likes me for me, then I like her for her.

I never really understood why any woman would like me enough to spend any time with me, but Robin says that I'm a great companion. I think that about her, too. She's the only one who I can walk around and make fun of people with, and she's good at swiping little stuff from the market until she has enough food for us to eat lunch by the river. She makes a mean stew and a pie that probably breaks every Stricture all at once.

The first thing we do when we get inside is go for the pie. We just get spoons and eat it - well, mostly just the filling - right from the pan, talking about whatever we feel like talking about. The whiskey comes next, and we laugh and sing 'til the entire neighborhood's yelling for us to shut up.

I learn a lot about Robin on nights like this. I guess we we're kind of the same, since we were both bullies when we were younger, but once we got older, it got harder for her, being a woman and all. Women aren't supposed to be big and meaty and tough like she is. They're supposed to be fragile, like you could break them if you wanted to, but all of those little, skinny women are boring. It's a good thing they don't want anything to do with me.

I went on to join the City Watch, where there are plenty of folks like me, but Robin couldn't do that, so she just started working at one of the factories. She hates that place, and she doesn't like most of the women who work there, either. They all think she's nothing but a lout, unfit to even show her face in public, and she calls them all "little nosy gossips", always talking about other people's business. Robin just goes on about them, making me laugh as she rants in mock anger, doing impressions of all the different women. I can never keep track of them, but there are a few that are my favorites. Robin knows them, though. I don't know if it's all true or not, but I don't really think it matters.

Sure, sometimes she can be boorish, but when I walk through the door with blood on my hands, Robin's there waiting for me. She'll take me by the arm and wash my hands with hot water and soap and massage my fingers until I feel better. I tell Robin that I've never had a place like this before. I've never been able to walk into a house and feel safe and peaceful, and I've definitely never had someone to greet me when I return from a long day at work. Robin tells me that it's what her mother did for her father when he came home. I guess she doesn't like to talk about her parents much, because they weren't too nice to her, but, "They were kind to each other," she tells me. I know she had three older sisters, and they were all pretty and managed to marry into families with some money, but Robin wasn't so lucky. Her parents kicked her out of the house once all of her sisters left, saying that she was useless and that they couldn't afford to care for her forever.

I can relate to her situation, but my momma just thought I was dumb, and we were all poor and uneducated, so that's _really_ saying something. My older brothers called me "Slow Jack", but once I grew bigger and stronger than them, I found that a few punches to the gut would shut them up. Of course, I never punched Momma, so I had to put up with her calling me stupid and yelling at me every time I made a mistake. Is it wrong that I wanted to hit her, just like I did with my brothers? Robin doesn't think so.

I remember the first day I met Robin. Some thugs were giving her a hard time, calling her "Pig Face" and "Big Girl", and then they surrounded her, trying to attack her. I was off-duty, taking a walk when I saw them, and jumped at the chance to break some skulls, but Robin saw to it first, and before I knew it, all three of the thugs were bleeding from their faces, just rolling around on the ground. She took one's knife and stabbed him in the thigh with it and kicked one of the other ones in the belly.

I just ran over there, laughing, and Robin and I joked around for a while, like we were already best friends. After that, I just hated being away from her. I had never met a woman who could take care of herself, before, and we were both so alike, in personality _and_ in fist size.

Well, we finish the pie, and we're working on the whiskey, so we just sit in front of the fire, telling stupid, dirty jokes to each other. She beats me with one about an Oracle and four Overseers, so she gets to choose what we do next. I love it when we have the whole night to just do whatever we want, and I wish every night were like this.

Robin says that I can stay as long as I like, and she practically invites me to live here. I tell her that I won't get any sleep with her around. We're like two kids, staying up talking all night, but sometimes I worry that she has other plans for us. Are we supposed to get married or something? When you meet a woman you like, you're supposed to marry her, but me and Robin, I don't know if we're like that. Most of the time, we're just eating, or drinking, or running around together. We don't hold hands, and we don't kiss. The closest thing to sex we've had is passing out on each other after drinking too much.

Robin says that her parents were best friends and that she always wanted something like that, but I never knew that couples were friends. I just always thought they went off, doing their own activities when they weren't playing house. Robin swears by it, though, so maybe we should try the whole "house" _and_ "friends" thing. I know I'm not waiting for anyone better to come along.

So, it's Robin's turn to pick our next activity, but she doesn't say anything; she just leans against me and curls up. What do I do, now? I put my arm around her and relax. It's peaceful here by the fire, and Robin's body is warm and soft. I hug her closer, and she looks up at me with her big, brown eyes. I smile because she is happy, and I always like to see her like that. It's not the silly kind of happiness that we mostly show to each other. It's that pure joy that's so rare these days.

I've never known anything like this. I never thought that I would feel so good sitting on a ratty couch in an old, drafty shack, listening to the sound of the crackling fire and the scratching of about twenty or so howling cats climbing all over the walls and roof, with my belly full of nothing but whiskey and pie filling. This is the poor man's life, but I feel as though it can't get any better than this because Robin is here. She drifts off, and I can hear her breathing. Her breath tickles my neck, and she's already drooling on my shoulder, but I could stay here forever, and I would be perfectly happy.

Maybe I _am_ dumb, but I'm glad that Robin puts up with my stupidity, because I call this place "paradise", and instead of telling me that I'm slow, and that don't know any better, and that I'm wrong, Robin just smiles and calls it "home".


	10. There Is No Circle, There Is No Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I really thought this was going to take me a long time to write, so I'm more than a little apprehensive that I wrote it in such a short time. I hope it at least vaguely makes sense and, as with most of my writing, I have no sense of its quality at all. I'm not too happy with it, but this is how it turned out.

* * *

The Void

_"The one who walks here is all things. Cradle songs of comfort and bones gnawed by teeth."_

* * *

I tap into time to share just a bit of myself with you. So, first, I must say:

There is no circle; there is no line.

There is no time.

Since I left the physical world, my mind has never been clearer. I was so restricted in life, only being able to experience one point in time, which continued to steadily move forward, until my physical body came to a stop. You call this moving point that follows you through life "the present".

_This_ place, the place where I reside, is what you would call "chaos". I can see my birth and death and everything in between all at once, and it all makes sense. I know you do not fully understand what I say, for words are restrictive. What I can tell you is confined to language, which is flawed, as it contains symbols that are both limited in number and multifaceted in meaning. If I could make you feel, then you would know, but I have no power here.

Only _he_ does. He watches all who reside in his domain. To you, he is the black-eyed man. The Outsider.

This is his Void. This is where the magic-users and Stricture-breakers go, according to the Overseers. Honestly, I have no idea if they are right or wrong. I do not know why I am here; I do not know where else there would be to go; I do not know if there are others here. Perhaps everyone is here, or maybe I am alone. All I know is that the Outsider watches me, and he will always observe me, because in this place, time does not exist.

I have all of my memories of life with me. They cradle me, giving me hints of emotion, sound, sights. Who was I? That, I cannot tell you, because, once again, I am restricted by words. I can describe my attributes: my personality, my looks, my thoughts, but who I was and who I am is only for me - and the Outsider, of course - to know.

If I focus on a memory, sometimes I can get a sense of "the present" and "time", both of which so fully ran my life. I can tell you of my birth: There was great warmth and moisture, full of living crimson, salty, rich, savory and sweet, smooth tones and thick harmonies of both darkness and light and gray, comforting as love and soft as breath, thought, emotion, spirit, flesh, beating, turning, touching and feeling, ignorant existence, safe and restricted. It was all that I knew, and I had no idea that there was more. When I was born, I made the same mistake again, believing that the world was all that existed and that there was nothing else. I know better now. Even as I travel the Void, I know there is more than this.

After my transition into the world, life became more vivid and orderly. My movement was less restricted, and I discovered more of my body's capabilities, trying out my voice and eyes. The smell of my old home lingered, but soon it was overpowered by other, foreign scents. For the first time, I became aware of myself, hearing _my_ own voice through my ears, and I met the others. I discovered that there were more like me, and this brought me joy, curiosity, and even a bit of apprehension. They had voices, too, and I drank them in, memorizing each one. It was all so new.

The time right before my birth into this world, or, as you would say, my death, came mostly with emotion. My body took a long time to shut down, and it wore out, making me sick. All I could feel was misery inside that rotting piece of meat. I bled and screamed, my words, forgotten. Insects nested inside my flesh, and all I wanted was to be free. All that I had taken for granted was stolen from me, and I cursed the world for what it had done. All that I had taken joy in as a living, breathing human was leaving me, but I still remained tethered when I wanted to float free. I felt as though the anguish would never end.

Then, I was here, and I _am_ here. I am here, simply _being_. It is both advanced and primitive, my experience. My thoughts radiate from me, echoing forever and ever in all possible directions. I know every thought I have ever had, both in this life and in the last. If I were still human, I would probably be bothered by the notion of eternity and of omniscience of myself, but I will tell any living person, that there is so much about themselves that they have not yet discovered. I know and am all of myself. I am all I ever was, and I am all I ever will be. I can still feel my body, stuck in the clutches of time. I can reach out to it, but it will stay in its place, forever, decaying until it is nothing. If I cared to do so, I could record the passage of time in the old world, using my connection with my physical shell, but I have no reason to do so. Why would I permit the misery of time to follow me to a place where there is none? It is the greatest blessing to always _be_.

Here, I will never be bored or impatient. I will never have to wait. I will never grow tired of this place, and I will never want to leave, because I am both new to the Void, experiencing it for the first time, and familiar with it, embracing it as I would an old friend.

Shapes and images float around me, and the ground is wherever I go. The Outsider creates these sights to remind me of my life before, as though I will forget. I see fish and water, roads and buildings. I can see people I knew and places I went, but it is all meaningless, for all they are and were is already with me.

But who am I? I wish I could tell you who I am. I truly do, but I cannot. Perhaps when your time runs out, you will understand, and I know you will be engrossed in discovering yourself, but as you look through your memories, I hope that you remember this little bit of me that I have given to you, for even though I have lost my physical body, I still exist, and the one _tiny_ part of me that refuses to let go of my humanness wants _someone_ to know that I have not stopped - and never will stop - _being._

Before I let go, I will tell you one more secret. To me, he speaks only one sentence...

...And always he whispers, "When time ends, all that will be left is the Void."


	11. A Quiet Evening On A Rainy Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just re-adding this

Upper Class Male

“He really did care for her once.”

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Where in the _Void_ did I put my lighter?” I pat the pockets of my jacket, scanning the room with my eyes. I have already stuck the cigarette in my mouth, and I feel like a complete fool standing here with an unlit cigarette between my lips, and in front of company, to make it worse.

 

“You do this almost every day, Malcolm. I do wish you would be more careful,” says my wife, puckering her thin, dry lips. I huff, giving up on my search and sit, taking the cigarette from my mouth.  
  


“Here, use mine,” says Garrett, pulling his lighter from his jacket pocket and passing it to me. I clear my throat, eying one of the servants sharply, and she takes the lighter from Lord Lancaster’s hand.  
  


“Very sorry, my Lord,” the servant says, igniting the lighter and holding it to the end of my cigarette. I inhale, letting the smooth smoke fill my mouth and wave her away. She clicks the lighter closed and hands it back to Garrett. “Do you need anything else?” she asks.  
  


“No, thank you, er - ” Damn, I do not recall her name. “That will be all.” The girl curtsies and turns to leave, and I study her figure, which resembles a slim hourglass, and for a moment I am hypnotized by the way she walks, her body swaying back and forth.  
  


“Malcolm, please, will you at least be a bit more discreet?” says my wife, giving me a sour look. She loves doing this, embarrassing me in front of company, that is. She just never knows when to keep her mouth shut. I try to be polite and not do the same to her, but today, I am fed up.

 

“Well, Hadley,” I say, giving her a smirk. “Perhaps if you weren’t so dried up, I would not have to look elsewhere to quench my thirst.” Hadley purses her lips, snapping her head in the air with a _humph_. Well, that shut her up. I have to say, I am proud of myself.

 

The Lancasters calmly watch our display from across the coffee table, and I try to change the subject. We would not want the entire Estate District gossiping about our marital problems, as if we did not have enough to worry about, already. At least we still have our reputation, and I intend to keep it clean.

 

“How was your vacation to Serkonos?” I ask them, smiling politely.  
  


“Oh, absolutely _dreadful,_ ” Madison answers before Garrett can speak up. I see his jaw tighten.

 

“Maddie, please, you are overreacting,” he protests.

 

“I am in no way overreacting, Garrett,” Maddie says. I think I see tears in her eyes and wonder what could have gotten her so worked up. Whatever it is, Garrett does not seem to care. I have to say, Maddie looks simply scrumptious in her lilac and mint, her honey-colored hair pulled up into a twist with a few ringlets hanging from it. At her bosom is a silver brooch in the shape of an opening flower. Tiny diamonds outline the petals. It adds the perfect touch to her outfit, and even though the woman’s face droops slightly as she frowns, I see no frown lines. Her cheeks are round and rosy, her skin, like smooth cream, and her lips, a kiss of strawberry. How can Garrett resist this woman?

 

Her blue eyes water, reminding me of a clear pond during a light rain, and she looks at me. Yes, she sees me staring.  
  


“Well,” Maddie starts. “We always take a coach from Cullero to Karnaca. So, Garrett and I sat in the back, trying to enjoy the sights, and this simpleton driver kept talking to us. Both of us hinted several times that we did not want to be interrupted, but, you know, Serkonans. He had no manners at all and was completely clueless when it came to dealing with the nobility. He told us about his wife and kids and the rest of his ridiculously large family, as if we wanted to hear about it. Well, you would think that you could at least trust a driver to drive you someplace without hitting anything, but the imbecile kept looking back at us to talk, taking his eyes off the road. We were already having a horrible trip so far, but then a baby - um - a baby _animal_ ran out into the road, and that horrible man hit it and ran it over! Oh, the poor thing. So, then the driver stopped and backed up and left us alone in the car, while he went to examine the animal. Oh, I shouldn’t have looked, but the driver picked it up - disgusting, I know - to throw it to the side of the road, and I saw it.” Now, Maddie bursts into tears. “It was bleeding and had broken bones. It was horrible!” I reach over the coffee table to hand her a handkerchief, but Garrett rolls his eyes.

 

“Oh, Maddie, you have watched me hunt with the other lords, haven’t you?”

 

“Yes, and I hate that, too, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the dead… _thing_ for our entire vacation!” Maddie sniffles into the handkerchief.

 

“Yes, Maddie, you were dreadfully bleak the entire time. Nothing but a wet blanket, ruining my vacation as well as your own.”

 

“It is not my fault that the driver was an idiot. We should have found a Gristian driver. I’m sure they have a few in Serkonos. Ugh, and that dirty Serkonan picked the animal up with his hands. Oh, Garrett, did he touch our bags? There’s no telling what that animal had on it. We could have the plague!”

 

“Maddie, calm down. There’s no need to spread false rumors. We are perfectly healthy.” Garrett smiles at me, taking a sip of brandy.  
  


“I’m very sorry to hear of your difficulties,” I say, keeping my eyes on Maddie, only. “I, too, would be distraught in that situation. I just hate to see poor animals hurt by uncaring people.”  
  


“It doesn’t stop you from hunting,” Garrett mumbles under his breath. I ignore him.  
  


“Dear, if you should ever need to talk, I am always here. There are very few who understand the human need to be sensitive at times.” Maddie’s eyes brighten.  
  


“Oh, thank you, Malcolm,” she says, giving me a half-grin. Do I see something more than innocent gratitude in her eyes? “You are too kind.” Both Garrett and Hadley roll their eyes.  
  


I cannot help but be sickened by both of them at times. Hadley, I can’t stand for many reasons, but Garrett? He does not see the treasure that sits beside him. Maybe one day, I’ll steal it away from him. I cannot help but chuckle at the thought of Hadley retiring to our bed and finding Maddie in her place. Unfortunately, open affairs are not tolerated within our circle, but secret affairs are more than commonplace. How grand would it be to have a woman of both beauty and class? My wife seems to be missing both of those traits.  
  


Hadley is of a darker complexion than the rest of us, her skin slightly tanned, suggesting that she is not a pure-blooded Gristian. How I failed to notice this when I married her, I will never know. Her hair and eyes are both a dark brown, and she is skinny, petite and flat, reminding me of a little girl with knobby knees. Her eyes are far too wide, and her lips, too thin, her cheekbones, sunken into her face, as though she were already half a corpse. She insists on keeping her hair down, pulling it back into a long braid, like some commoner.

 

That is what I get for marrying below me. Her father was a rich businessman, and her mother, the daughter of a rich businessman. I truly believed back then that, because Hadley had the money, that it was acceptable for me to marry her. However, I have learned that no matter how much money you give to someone, no matter what titles you grant them, you can never turn their blood noble. I cringe at the thought that I am responsible for muddying the blood of the nobility, which means that my heir, and his heir, and his heir, and so on will be doomed to carrying contaminated blood through their veins. Other lines, unaware of it, will marry my heirs and dirty their lines as well. What have I done? Sometimes I think that I should marry again, but my current wife is younger than me, and I do not think she is going anywhere anytime soon.  
  


Unless… Oh, I can imagine it. We all sit down to dinner, Hadley and I at either end of the table, and the servants pour the wine. It is a white wine, light and sweet. I take a sip, letting the flavor find its way to every point of my mouth. We all enjoy the wine, and the first course is brought to the table. Oysters, fresh from the sea. Clean and unpolluted. Hadley starts on her first oyster, and I eye Maddie, smiling sinfully when I catch her eye. She smirks back.

 

Hadley coughs, spitting the oyster onto her plate.  
  


“Hadley,” I say in mock outrage. “What has gotten into you? That is absolutely disgusting!” Hadley continues to cough.

 

“I think I have something in my throat,” she says, wheezing. She falls into a coughing fit, and as our attention is turned to her, Garrett starts to cough, as well.

 

“Garrett, dear,” Maddie says. “Are you alright?”  
  


Hadley collapses, her face landing right on her plate, and Garrett looks at both of us with wide eyes.

 

“What’s going on?” he breathes. Maddie and I smile.

 

“Well, it seems you and Hadley have been poisoned,” she replies. “Perhaps I should not have had that poor servant boy lace the glasses with arsenic…”  
  


Arsenic? No, no, nobody dies that fast after ingesting arsenic, and certainly not nearly as cleanly. I sigh, my fantasy interrupted by my inability to think up anything even remotely realistic. Well, if it is a fantasy, I guess it does not matter what kind of poison I use.  
  


The thought of actually eating dinner with my wife without poisoning her, fills me with repugnance. I do not know how many more times I can look at her across the table as we eat in silence. I tell her every time not to slurp her soup, but she always does it. Knowing her, it is probably intentional. She is probably trying to kill me off so that she can take all of my earnings for herself.  
  


I stare down at my wine glass, which sits on the table, mostly empty.  
  


“I think I will go lie down,” I say, standing suddenly. “I am afraid I have a bit of a headache and must rest before it gets any worse.” I bow. “Garrett, Madison, it was very nice seeing you both today, and I hope that you will forgive me.”  
  


“Of course,” says Garrett.

 

“I hope you feel better, Malcolm,” Maddie tells me, her eyes fluttering.  
  


“I trust that my wife will be able to entertain you for the rest of the evening.” I smile at Hadley, and her mouth mimics my own.  
  


“Of course.” I turn, heading for the stairs and make my way to the bedroom.  
  


 

The extent of my loneliness in this house is embarrassing. Perhaps I will take in a mistress, I am sure Hadley will not mind, too much. I smirk. It really is a shame. I used to love my wife.  
  


We met at a party at Pendleton Manor. The poor girl seemed so out of place, and I guess I pitied her, because I brought her a drink and we talked for a while. I only planned to speak to her for a few minutes, but we talked and laughed and danced. It really was a beautiful night. I held her as we watched the fireworks out on the patio, and she smiled at me. I wanted to see that smile, again, and so the next week, I called upon her. Her father loved me, immediately - perhaps even suspiciously too much - but I truly felt I had found the love of my life, and, like a fool, I married her, thinking that love was more important than my social status. Hadley took her new title and flaunted it, like a gaudy scarf. I ignored it at first, because I just loved her so much. I was happy with her, and we shut the world out, living like lovebirds in our nest. Luckily, she never bore me any children, for the first was stillborn. That would have been a disaster, having to explain some foreign-blooded child. Later, Hadley grew angry at me, telling me that I was not supportive and that I was condescending. She never appreciated a thing I did for her. She would still only be some rich man’s daughter if I had not married her, giving her the ability to introduce herself as Lady Dayton. I realize now that she did not deserve any of it, but I was blinded by love. It is an emotion for the weak-minded, and I gave into it, throwing away all that I was given from the day I was born.  
  


Maybe she will choke during dinner.  
  


 

The servant girl with the hourglass figure passes me, carrying a basket full of linens in her arms.  
  


“Er, girl” I start. She stops, and I detect a hint of annoyance on her face. She would never dare speak up to tell me her name without me asking, though. I take a moment to look her up and down, not bothering to hide my stare. The servant girl shifts uncomfortably.  
  


I really should ask her name, but I would rather go lie down.  
  


“Some aspirin and a glass of water, please. Just bring it to the bedroom.”  
  


“Yes, my Lord,” she says. I turn, praising the silence of the upstairs. The bedroom is dark, and I remove my shoes and jacket, throwing myself barbarically onto the bed. I groan. Have I nothing to look forward to anymore?  
  


I think of the servant girl. She cannot be any older than twenty. I cannot even imagine wasting my youth in service. Luckily, I have never had to think about it. Do servants court each other? When do they have time to meet people? I cringe at the thought of those dirty peasants fornicating in my house. I picture them as rabbits, little creatures eager to climb on top of one another for a short, frantic fuck, never able to control their urges. That’s how these people are. The races of the lower class are only slightly more advanced than animals, giving into their instincts before using their brains.  
  


The servant girl enters, and I beckon her into the room, sitting up on the side of the bed. I pat the mattress next to me, and she sits. I take the water and aspirin away from her, leaving it forgotten on the nightstand.  
  


I have to say that the first time I had her, I enjoyed her very much, and we talked and giggled until the sun came up. After that, she always had a smile for me, which was nice. It made this old house seem very refreshing. I even knew her name for a short time. The poor girl probably had the wrong idea about me, though, and even told me that she loved me, once. I was fond of her, but love? Well, I had to put an end to that, but her body is still very nice, and so I have her lie on the bed.  
  


“I don’t want a word out of you,” I tell her. She nods silently with tears in her eyes.

 

It is over quickly, and I kick her out of the room. I feel no better than before, but I am restless and so decide to go back downstairs.  
  


The guests have finished dinner and sip coffee in the living room. Hadley, not having suffocated during dinner, sees me and raises an eyebrow. Ugh, she crosses her ankle over her thigh, again.  
  


“How many times have I told you that it is improper for women to cross their legs any higher than at the knee?” I snap. _“Close your legs.”_ Garrett and Maddie jump, but Hadley simply ignores me.  
  


“Garrett, how lucky you are,” I say. “You have the perfect wife, and I am stuck with this hagfish.” I gesture toward Hadley, whose face has turned red, and Maddie giggles.  
  


“I have had quite enough of your insults,” Hadley brays, clenching her fists.  
  


“Please, Hadley, don’t make a scene,” I say calmly. I fish for a cigarette in my pocket and stick it in my mouth. Damn, I still haven’t found my lighter.  
  


“Girl!” I shout. Where is she? “Hadley, go find her, would you?”

 

“Excuse me?” Hadley exclaims.  
  


“I said go find the servant girl, dear. I would like to smoke this cigarette,” I say calmly, holding the rolled paper between my fingers.  
  


“Why must you insult me so?” Hadley cries. “I - I need to go for a walk.” She walks with her head down - yet another habit I have tried to break her from many times - and disappears into the entrance hall.

 

Garrett is the first to laugh, and Maddie joins in.

 

“The poor dear,” Garrett says. “Malcolm, you really should not spoil her so. I think she is beginning to believe that her title is more than nominal.” He chuckles, holding a cloth napkin to his face. I do not know whether to laugh or be embarrassed because I am the idiot who married Hadley.  
  


“I really should just get rid of her and find a wife more suitable for someone of my class,” I say, only half-jokingly.

 

“Then, do it,” Maddie says, taking a sip of coffee. “I hear that Lord Beauregard is looking for a husband for his daughter, Laney. I’m sure you’ve noticed her.” I have noticed her, and I admit the girl is quite fetching. However, Maddie…  
  


“I find that I much prefer blondes,” I say, sitting back on the sofa, grinning at Maddie. She gives me a warning stare, her eyes darting quickly to her husband by her side.

 

“Well, it seems that blondes do not prefer old men like you,” Garrett says, his eyes narrowing.  
  


“Old? Me? Please. I am not even forty, yet.” I do admit that I look much older than I should. I am already growing pudgy around my middle and have quite a prominent bald spot on the top of my head. Garrett is fit. His hair is thick, and he has naught but one single wrinkle on his forehead. I find myself growing resentful as I stare at Garrett and his stunning wife beside him. He seems to have everything, and what do I have? A bitter shrew of a wife and a dwindling bank account.  
  


“Oh, Malcolm, did I tell you about the killing I am making, having invested in Sokolov’s technology? Everyone’s buying it up, you know. You should think about getting a wall of light, or something. I’ve heard that there have been a couple of robberies around here, lately.” He grins smugly, as if he thinks I do not know about his employment of thieves.

 

“I think I will do just fine with the pistol under my bed,” I reply. Garrett frowns for a second.

 

“Have you heard about the Pendletons?” Maddie asks, changing the subject.  
  


“What about them? The fact that they’re broke or that they’ve been living in a whore house? Or is it the younger one, who’s disappeared?” I turn to Garrett. “You should send your - I mean perhaps someone should rob the Pendleton estate, considering everything is just sitting there, ripe for the taking.” Garrett’s eyes glitter.  
  


“Perhaps they should.” He puts a finger to his chin. “You know, Malcolm, I have heard some unfortunate news about you, as well.”  
  


“You must be mistaken.” I am tempted to throw him off of the balcony. That would shut him up.  
  


“Oh, you two,” Maddie says, lightly grasping her husband’s shoulder. She giggles. “You can be such boys at times.” I sip my coffee, and Garrett sips his. I hear a thunder clap outside and realize that Hadley has been walking around in the rain, like a dog.  
  


“Where are all the servants?” I exclaim, realizing that I have not seen any of them in a while.  
  


“I was wondering that, too,” Garrett says. “We only had about two serving us during dinner. Then, it was just that one quiet male servant.” I will have to look into that. I am not paying my servants to disappear.  
  


We sit in silence for a few moments, studying each other’s faces. I cannot help but notice Garrett’s hand wander to his wife’s thigh. I am tempted to rip his paw away from her.  
  


“Malcolm, dear,” Maddie says, stroking her throat. “I could really use something a little more refreshing than coffee.” I stand, scanning the room and then head toward the corridor.

 

“I’ll go find that useless servant girl,” I say. _“Girl!”_   Well, the girl is still nowhere to be found, and I return with the drink myself. Ordinarily, I would feel ashamed of doing such a thing, but for Maddie, it is not a problem. I enter the room quietly, listening to the Lancasters’ conversation.  
  


“You are horrible,” I hear Garrett whisper, laughing.  
  


“But it’s so fun. He’s infatuated with me. He would probably do anything I told him to. I guess I feel a bit bad, since he married that sad woman,” Maddie replies. “But, then I love how he will fetch anything for me, like a dog.”  
  


“Did you see how he looked when I put my hand on you? Priceless.” The two giggle like children, and I enter the room, my face blank. Instead of giving the drink to Maddie, I sit on the sofa, sipping it myself. Maddie chooses to ignore my slight.

 

“Is that water straight from the tap?” she asks, grimacing. “With the plague seeping through the pipes, I only ever drink distilled water.”  
  


“Of course this is distilled,” I lie. “This house is plague-free.”  
  


“Your servants don’t seem to think so,” Garrett mumbles.  
  


“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap.

 

“Well, as I was saying earlier, I have heard some rumors about you and your home. Apparently, people have reason to believe that many of your servants have fallen ill with the plague,” Garret replies.  
  


“My servants? You must be mistaken.” Damn nosy people can’t mind their own business.  
  


“Yes, well, with the rumors, we were a bit apprehensive to come over this evening,” Garrett tells me, studying his nails. “But, it is good to see that all seems well, here. The way your household is run is very… rustic.”  
  


_“Rustic?”_   
  


“Yes, with the few servants and the lack of decor.” Garrett raises his eyebrows at me, but I act as though his words are not an insult.

 

“How about we play some cards?” Maddie suggests.

 

“Perfect,” I say, standing. We all head to the card table, bringing fresh drinks with us, and a few round of cards is enough to calm me down. I reach under the table every once and a while to feel for Maddie’s thigh, and she ignores me, looking at her husband as though he were the love of her life.

 

“Well, I have to say, I’m getting a bit tired,” Maddie says after our third game. She yawns.

 

“Yes, this seems like a good time to stop, don’t you think, Malcolm?” Garrett asks. I agree, and we all stand, making sure our clothes and hair are neat before leaving for the hallway.

 

We meet Hadley at the door, and her eyes are red and puffy. However, she is not wet, so I guess she has not been outside. She frowns excessively, as if she expects us to pity her. I do not know where Hadley gets these ideas that any of us would care about her sadness.

 

“I do not feel well. I think I will go lie down,” she says, coughing. I roll my eyes, and Hadley trudges up the stairs, not bothering to say goodbye to the company. Ignorant woman.

 

A servant steps into the hall, holding the Lancasters’ coats.

 

“Cranston, where have you been?” I demand.  
  


“I stepped out back for a smoke my Lord. I’m very sorry,” he says. He does not look apologetic, and, in fact, he looks almost resentful as I look him in the eye.  
  


“Well, don’t let it happen again. You are supposed to be here, inside the house,” I reply.

 

“Of course. Very sorry, my Lord,” Cranston says again, bowing. He opens the door for the Lancasters, and already the rain has slowed to a light drizzle.

 

“Well, this was lovely,” says Garrett. “We’ll have to do this again.” He pats me on the shoulder.

 

“Of course, Garrett. You know I always enjoy yours and Madison’s company.” I bow to them, and after donning their coats, the Lancasters turn to leave.

 

I wait until they are safely in their railcar to return to the house. The servant girl is back, and she looks at me timidly, turning to scurry away. Of course, staying to wait on her master would be far too difficult. I sigh and then head upstairs to bed, hoping that my wife has graciously stopped breathing in her sleep. Who am I kidding, even bothering with hope? Life has never worked out so neatly for me.  
  


Tomorrow, I think I will go buy myself a new jacket. Perhaps something in blue? Yes, a fine one that will make me look like a completely new man.

 

 


	12. Billy n' Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert Logan the Bottle Street Thug will be telling his story about Billy the dog. It's kind of long, but I hope he is able to hold your interest.

* * *

Bottle Street Thug

_"He feeds a stray dog every night. He named her Billy."_

* * *

Nobody ever loved me in my entire life 'cept two people. I dunno why _anyone_ would, since it ain't like I deserve nuttin' like that. That's why people like me is called scum. 'Cause we're unlovable. You ever loved scum? I know I never did. It'd take some strange son of a bitch to see some junk left in a drain or in a washbasin n' treat it like it were the best thing in the world.

It don't matter what ya call it. Scum, litter, garbage, trash, dirt, shit, whatever. That's what all of us is, n' ain't no changin' it. I could put on some fancy clothes, but I ain't no pansy. I'd rather be trash than some flow'ry 'ristocat - bunch'a dolled-up pussies if ya ask me.

One of the only people to ever love me wasn't actually a person. It was somethin' dumb enough to love anythin'. Even scum. I was sittin' in the alley one day, takin' a whiskey break, n' this dirty mutt comes walkin' past, lookin' at me, like it wants somethin'. Well, I didn't know what it wanted, so I just scooped a ball of mud from the ground, since it'd just rained, n' threw it. I didn't' think it would do nuttin', but the mutt went runnin' like I'd just chucked a whole honey-ham. She was lookin' 'round for it, the dumb bitch, but I dunno why. It just made me laugh. When she didn't find the mud ball, she came hoppin' back to me, like I had another one, so I threw another mud ball, n' sure 'nuff she went flyin'. I kept' throwin' 'em, but she never figured it out n' just kept' chasin' 'em.

N' I thought I was dumb.

She's a lil' shaggy, gray mutt wit' big, brown eyes. Her fur's filthy, n' I think she's got fleas, but she's got a great personality. I dunno how long she's been wanderin' around. Ain't too many dogs left 'round here.

I'm surprised she's lasted this long. Ain't no secret that most of the meat pies n' stuff 'round here's made of cat n' dog. Before the plague there was still fish, eels, beef, pork, poultry, n' potatoes n' all that to eat, but it's gone, now. Pretty soon _all_ the meat'll be gone. I ain't seen a dog or cat 'round here in a long time, not 'til I saw Billy, at least.

I dunno why I named her Billy. Someone might think that I like to torture myself with old, sad memories. I'd rather just forget it all. I'm a thug now, n' this distillery is the closest thing to home I'll ever get.

I was five when Billy was born. I remember my ma yellin' n' carryin' on in the bedroom while some fat lady talked to her. Then there was cryin'.

When I first saw Billy, I said she was a monster. She was just an ugly, bloody, wrinkly thing, n' when my ma said it was my sis, well, I didn't believe her at all. To me, she was just some intruder, like some homeless animal my ma brought into the house. She stank n' she cried all the time. I just wanted to hit her n' tell her to shut up. My pop came close to it, but he hit Ma instead n' told her to make the baby shut up. Then Ma started cryin', n' Pop followed her as she ran into the bedroom. They was shoutin' n' throwin' stuff, n' I was left with the baby. I remember peekin' over into her crib, n' her face was all red. She made cryin' look so painful. I asked her to be quiet 'cause she was upsettin' Ma n' Pop. She didn't care though, the selfish lil' brat.

The days was like that for a while, but things settled down for a little while. Billy got older n' started crawlin' around n' talkin'. She always called me "Gilly" 'stead of "Gilbert". I guess it was easier for her to say, n' I never liked my name anyways, so it stuck.

Billy grew up just like me, so although Ma fed us n' took care of us, she wasn't too lovin' like mothers is s'posed to be. She was always cryin' n' lockin' herself in the bedroom, so I was the one who ended up playin' wit' Billy. We was both scared of Pop, 'cause it didn't take much to make him angry, n' before you knew it, things would be flyin' at your head, n' he'd knock stuff over n' yell. I guess I took to doin' that, too, goin' into these rages, but I'd never hurt Billy or Ma. I was too little to ever try to take a swing at Pop, n' I wanted to, 'specially when he slapped Billy or yelled at her. I'd just take out my anger on trash cans outside after I got Billy away from him.

Ma kept gettin' worse, n' I was worried, 'cause she was real hurt sometimes, n' we saw her less n' less. She locked everyone outta the bedroom, so me n' Billy slept on the floor, while Pop took the couch, when he didn't pass out drunk at a bar or on the street. If Pop got angry at night, I'd take Billy n' we'd climb up on the roof of the house n' sleep there. It was cold, but I always gave her my coat to wear.

Me n' Billy had happier moments, too. I taught her a bunch of rhymes, n' her favorite one was Bake-a-Cake, with the hand clappin'.

 

 

_Bake-a-cake, bake-a-cake, baker's man._

_Bake me a cake as good as you can;_

_Mix it, and pour it, and mark it with a B,_

_and put it in the oven for Billy and me!_

We always made our game real fun, clappin' faster n' faster 'til we was just slappin' at each other's hands n' gigglin'. Billy didn't know what the song was about, since we never had cake. So, one day, I swiped her a slice from the market n' we ate it up on the roof. Billy just loved it. I let her eat most of it n' then wiped the crumbs n' frostin' off her face. She grinned for the longest time.

After a while, I couldn't do those children's games no more. Pop woke us up one night, screamin', n' I just remember seein' that he'd broken down the bedroom door. There was blood all on the bed, n' Ma was just layin' on the bed not movin'. Pop saw me n' just picked me up n' grabbed my throat. I remember clawin' at his hands. I could hear Billy cryin', "Gilly! Gilly!" I started gettin' spots in front of my eyes n' started kickin' at him. He dropped me n' I told Billy to run. I threw stuff at Pop as he tried to get closer n' finally just stabbed him in the leg wit' a kitchen knife I managed to grab. While he was yellin', I ran out the door n' called for Billy. She was up on the roof, n' I helped her get down, n' we just ran.

We took to livin' on the streets n' managed to find some abandoned buildin's to live in. There was already homeless folks there, n' most of 'em was nice, but some we had to watch out for. I always slept wit' one eye open, makin' Billy sleep behind me against the wall. Most of the time we had to steal our food, but sometimes this Oracle would come by. I dunno why she was in Dunwall, but I guess I never cared, 'cause I never asked her. She gave out food to all the children on the street. I know some of 'em wasn't street children. Some was just from poor families, n' their parents had 'em pretend. It made me mad, 'specially when the Oracle ran out of food 'fore Billy n' me could get some. I took to pointin' the fakes out n' threatenin' them so they'd stay away. It worked most of the time, but sometimes I had to pull a punch or two to teach 'em a lesson. I wasn't lettin' those little brats take Billy's food. I think I did a pretty good job at bein' a big brother, but I didn't know that it only took one mistake to lose everythin' I had worked for.

Billy (the dog) and I, well, we're best friends now. I find her in the alley everyday, n' give her what food I can find. Then, I like to pet her for a while. It's nice feelin' her fur under my palms n' her heat 'gainst my skin. I don't think most people realize how long they go without touchin' another person. It's nice to be able to hold somethin' livin' again. She makes great company, too, n' she seems to really care 'bout me, which is somethin' I ain't seen in other dogs.

Yesterday, she ran up to me all excited, just jumpin' everywhere. She barked n' ran, so I followed her to a pile of wood in an alley. Looks like a baker's cart got hit. There was bread n' cake spread all over the ground, crumbled n' squished. I searched through the wood, n' wasn't no money left. I sighed n' kicked the wood so it went everywhere, n' Billy looked at me like she was scared. I patted her on the head so he wouldn't be 'fraid of me no more, n' she started jumpin' again n' circled a paper box. I picked up the box n' opened it, n' it had a big slice of cake in it. There was some words written on the box, but I dunno what they said. Billy looked up at me proud as could be.

"This is what'cha wanted to show me, girl?" I asked her. She barked n' wagged her tail, n' I let her chase me all the way back home. We stopped in our usual alley n' shared the cake, me n' Billy. I picked off some pieces wit' my fingers n' let Billy lick 'em off, but she let me have most of the cake.

It was real nice of her to find that cake for me. I made sure to feed her everyday, even if there weren't much food for me to eat. I know it's kind of stupid to starve for a dog, but I just couldn't bear seein' Billy hungry. I took to eatin' rats, which is risky, 'cause of the plague n' all, n' I didn't want Billy eatin' plague rats. I would search around for somethin' she could eat. She ate whatever I managed to find: canned food, bread, fruit, n' she never got sick, so I guess it were all okay. Pretty soon, I couldn't find nuttin' no more, so I had to give her the rats, n' we'd sit around while I roasted 'em over a fire.

When I had work to do, Billy would wait in the alley for me. She always hid if someone else went down there, but once I arrived, she'd pop out from wherever she'd been n' jump up on me n' bark like I was the greatest person in the world.

I'm glad she thought that about me, 'cause I ain't exactly popular wit' the gang right now. Yesterday, we had a lot of confusion 'cause someone managed to contaminate the elixir stills with plague. I was the one guardin' the upstairs door leadin' to Slackjaw's office when it happened. I swore up n' down that I didn't see nobody go in there. I stayed at my post the whole time, too. Even when I had to take a piss, I just went over the railin' - after givin' the boys below me a heads up, of course. Well, _most_ of the time - and I still didn't see nuttin'. But the downstairs door was locked, Slackjaw told me, so the only way the intruder could've gotten in was through the door I was guardin', unless I was the one who poisoned the elixir. I figured I'd rather take the wrap for not guardin' the door than for turnin' people into weepers, so that's what I did. Now, Slackjaw don't trust me wit' anythin' on my own, 'cept for lockin' the weepers up. Everyone's happy to let me do that job. So, I spent the rest of the day wranglin' weepers, n' if you ever seen 'em, you can imagine how hard it'd be to catch 'em. I managed to stay alive, n' hopefully, I ain't got the plague, but by the end of the day, I just wanted to hit somethin'. Hard.

I was just _furious_. I remember goin' to the alley n' breakin' everythin' I could get my hands on. I kicked the dumpster 'til it was full of dents. I broke down a wooden door. I scared some of the people livin' in the apartments n' could see their faces peekin' from the balconies. I didn't care, though. Once I ran out of stuff to break, I had to fight the urge to start punchin' the brick wall. I wouldn't be able to work without my fists, but _goddamn_ , I was angry.

Well, I heard this whimperin' n' realized that Billy was hidin' in a hole in one of the walls. I 'member coaxin' her out of there, but she was scared of me. It took a while, but she finally came to me, n' I patted her on the head n' stroked her fur.

"I'm sorry, Billy," I said. "I didn't me to scare ya. I'd never hurt ya."

I walked around wit' her for a bit. I think she was the one leadin', 'cause we ended up in the old neighborhood where me n' my sis, the _first_ Billy, used to sleep.

"I don't wanna be here," I said, but Billy walked next to the tracks 'til we ended up... "Billy, let's go," I said. I tried to get her to come wit' me, but she just stayed. "Billy, c'mon," I pleaded. "I'll go find ya some food. How's that sound?" Billy stayed right where she was. I turned to walk away, but I didn't wanna just leave her there. I looked over my shoulder, n' Billy just stared at me with those big eyes, like she was pleadin' wit' me.

"Can't we just stay a little longer, Gilly? Pleeease?" she seemed to say.

"Alright," I replied. "But just for a lil' bit." I sat down next to Billy n' held her next to me, strokin' her fur, n' we didn't move from our spots 'til the sun set n' then rose again.

For some reason, I don't really feel all that tired. Actually, I feel a lot better than I did yesterday, even though I'm starvin' n' cold, n' my backside kills.

Billy's run off ahead of me, so I head back to the distillery to see what my job is today.

"Collectin'," I say as I look at the chart. Yeah, we have a chart, n' it ain't got nuttin' but pictures 'cause a lot of us can't read. Slackjaw's _real_ organized. He likes stuff to go real smooth. A square is guard duty outside, n' a colored-in square is guard duty inside. An "X" is cleanin' kind of stuff, like emptyin' the toilets. Nobody ever wants that job. A star is a special job, n' those people go to Slackjaw to see what they're doin'. It ain't as great as it sounds. Special jobs is usually goin' out to find food or robbin' someone's house. A circle is collectin', which means I gotta go door to door n' get money from people, n' if they don't pay, well, then I rough 'em up.

All of us got a number. Mine is 95, so I got it memorized n' know how to read it. So, once I know what my job is, I go outside to wait for the other collectors for the day.

I end up wit' this slow brute named Goode n' a skinny fella with a long face n' pointy teeth, who we call "Ferret." Collectin' ain't a bad job, but me n' Ferret don't get along so good. I try to not talk to him, but he's always talkin', sayin' stuff to provoke me or annoy me.

"So, Logan," he says to me. "I heard you fell asleep while you was guardin' the upstairs door. Must take a lotta skill, doin' that n' managin' to piss on my shoulder." He's one of the ones I didn't give a heads up. "We lost a lotta good boys 'cause of you. I'm surprised that you ain't cleanin' the toilets right now." I try to ignore him, but he keeps talkin'. "You better be careful, Logan. You never know when you might find some plague or even some poison in your whiskey. Maybe even a good ol' fashioned knife in your back." I glare at him. I don't like bein' threatened. Ever since I left home, I ain't never let nobody threaten me. Ferret's lookin' at me wit' his beady eyes, just waitin' for me to take a swing at him. If I do, I'll probably be stuck cleanin' toilets for a long time. Slackjaw don't like fightin' among his men.

"Gotta take a piss," I mumble. "Go without me. I'll catch up."

I sneak into the alley, and there she is waitin' for me. Billy pads up to me, like she ain't seen me for a month.

"Hey girl," I say, givin' her a pat on the head. "I found this just for you." It ain't nuttin' but a rat and some leftover bones from this mornin', but it's food. Billy sniffs it n' goes for it. She's such a good eater. Makes me proud of her. "Good Billy." I pat her head again, n' she looks up at me n' smiles. It's not like a human smile, but Billy smiles wit' her eyes.

"Logan, what'cha up to?" I hear a voice behind me. It's Ferret. I stand, hidin' Billy behind my legs, but Ferret still spots her. I see his eyes light up. "What's that?" He says. "A dog? You been holdin' out on us, Logan? How many more of those did ya find?"

"Billy's the only one, n' she's mine," I growl. Ferret comes towards me n' grabs for Billy, but she jumps back, growlin'.

"Come here, lil' doggie," he says in his nasally voice. "Don't worry, I'll kill ya quick." He takes out his pocket knife.

"Don't you dare," I warn him, reachin' for my own knife. Ferret lunges for Billy, shovin' me aside. He manages to get a hold of one of her ears before I pull him away. I scoop Billy up into my arms, n' Ferret grabs at her as I try to shield her wit' my back.

I guess we caused a bit of a commotion, 'cause a few more of the boys are here, now, just starin' n' laughin'.

"What's goin' on?" Slackjaw's here, and we both stop, Billy lookin' dizzy n' confused.

"Logan's hoggin' food, that's what," Ferret says.

"Billy ain't food. She's my friend," I shout, holdin' 'her close. Ferret n' the others laugh.

"She's my frieeeend," Ferret mocks, makin' his jaw look like mine. "Well ya better make friends wit' my stomach, 'cause that's where the dog'll be in a little bit." I jump up, punchin' him in the face. I drop Billy, n' she runs to her hidin' place, n' Ferret goes after her, but I grab his collar, n' he chokes, fallin' backward. I stomp on him 'til he almost stabs me wit' his knife, so I back off while he gets up. Now, we're circlin' each other, our knives out. I'll fight to the death if I have to. I ain't lettin' _nobody_ eat Billy.

Slackjaw manages to stop us from fightin' by runnin' in between us n' points his finger in my face.

"The dog's goin' in the cage to be eaten, Logan," he says. I see Ferret smile. "That's the end of it. It's good food. Go get yourself a whore if ya want someone to talk to." The others laugh, but Slackjaw looks back at 'em seriously. "All of ya, get back to work," he orders. He takes one last look at me, n' two of the others try to take Billy. She won't go with 'em, but someone finally gets a rope 'round her neck, n' they drag her into the distillery. I stand there in the alley alone.

It's times like these that I just wanna _stab_ someone, ya know? Maybe ya don't. I just get so angry, n' I gotta get that out somehow. I been like that my entire life. The Oracle who gave out food to the homeless folk told me that I should learn how to control my anger. Dumb ol' hag never told me how, though. I ain't smart enough to figure out stuff like that on my own. I 'member, when I would get mad n' start hittin' n' throwin' stuff, my lil' sis would run away all scared. Once I'd cooled down, I'd have to go find her. She had these hidin' places that she liked, so I'd search all of 'em 'til I found her. She'd always have these wide eyes like I was gonna hurt her. I dunno why she'd think that. Well, one day, she goes n' hides, n' I go lookin' for her, n' this richie comes up in his railcar.

"Gilly!" I hear. This ol' richie's got my sis. He's full of wrinkles. He's got his _wrinkles_ on her, holdin' her arms.

"Hello there, son," says the richie. "Little Billy here pointed you out as her brother, and I wouldn't want you to be worried. She was wandering around all alone, you see."

"Yeah, well, she's found now, so give her back," I say.

"Well, I was just telling Billy here that I would take her back to my estate to get some food. How does that sound?" The richie gives me this smile that reminds me of a snake.

"Gimme my _sister_ ," I demand.

"Aren't you hungry, little boy?" he asks me.

"Food, Gilly!" Billy's eyes are excited, but I don't trust this man.

"Get your hands off my sis. We'll get our own food."

"There's candy, Gilly! And cake, too!" Billy's eyes is wide wit' life.

"Billy, get out of there," I order. "I'll steal ya some cake. I _promise_."

"Aw, big brother," says the old man. "At least let the girl go get some cake. I'll bring her back right after that, if you don't want to come along."

"If you don't give her back, I'll - " Heat rushes to my face. "I'll kill you! I'll stab you in the face! Now, give her back!" The richie looks at me sympathetically.

"You poor, ignorant street boy. Sometimes I forget that you are of a simpler nature than those of my station. I know that you do not understand, but what I do is for the best. Your sister will be happier with me."

"No!" I scream in desperation. Hot tears form in my eyes. "Give her back!"

My last memory of my little sister is of her smilin' n' wavin' at me. I run after the railcar as it drives away.

"Bye, Gilly! I'll bring you back some cake!" she said. I never saw her again after that.

I dunno what exactly happened to her, but I know she ain't alive. She died scared and alone, without her big brother, Gilly, to hold her close n' tell her that it would be okay. I hope that she at least got her cake before then.

Over the years, I've heard more stories of street kids gettin' taken away by the richies. They found out that a bunch of the richies was doin' rituals n' stuff, sacrificin' kids, drainin' 'em of their blood, tryin' to get the Outsider to make 'em richer or give 'em powers or somethin'. Shit, I don't even wanna think about it. They say that the Overseers put n' end to it, but kids still disappear.

I wish I had gone wit' Billy. Maybe I could've saved her, or at least died wit' her. Either one of those is better than lettin' her die alone.

Inside the Distillery, the boys've got Billy in a cage. They're kickin' the bars, tellin' Billy how they're gonna skin her n' cook her.

Billy looks at me wit' those eyes, n' all I can see is my lil' sis. The dog ain't smilin' though.

I can't let Billy die. I'll save her this time 'round.

We all sleep on the floor of the distillery, inside or outside, dependin' on the weather. I try to sleep close to the cage, but Slackjaw tells me to sleep outside with the weepers.

I can hear them in the outside cage moanin', like they're in pain or somethin'. I'm tempted to just shoot 'em, but Slackjaw wants 'em alive for some reason. Some of 'em got out today, n' some of the boys ended up gettin' killed or injured _real_ bad. If it wasn't for this masked fella walkin' 'round, all of 'em would prob'ly be dead. Well, the cage is still full, n' the weepers keep me awake. Luckily, I ain't plannin' on sleepin' tonight.

I wait 'bout an hour 'fore I sneak back into the buildin'. None of the gates is locked or nothin', so it's easy for me to sneak down to the first floor. I gotta tiptoe - as well as someone of my size can - over the sleepin' thugs. Luckily most of 'em is passed out drunk, so I ain't gotta worry 'bout 'em wakin' up.

Of course, the fella who's s'posed to be guardin' the cage is just as passed out as everyone else, so I slip the key from his belt n' open the cage.

Billy's lyin' in the corner all sad, n' I pet her for a little bit 'fore she'll come wit' me. She n' I pad silently 'cross the floor, n' I pick her up so she won't step on nobody. We make it up the stairs n' out the door n' leave the distillery.

It's a cloudy night, n' Billy's still spooked from gettin' locked up. I realize that I ain't even got no food for her, but she still seems happy to see me. I pet her for a bit 'fore leadin' her down the road.

"C'mon, Billy," I whisper, n' she follows. We sneak past the guards, n' the road blocks, threatenin' some of the lower guards when we come 'cross 'em, Billy wit' her teeth n' me wit' my knife n' fists. It's a long walk to the other side of the city, but we make it 'fore the sun comes up.

Billy whimpers at me when I stop walkin', eyin' the road ahead of us. I never been to the country n' I don't think Billy has neither. I heard it's a whole different world out there.

"Don't be afraid, Billy," I say, rubbin' behind her ear. "We'll be alright. We'll find someplace to live, Billy. You n' me. We'll build a cabin out in the countryside, n' nobody'll ever bother us again. That sound good to you?"

Who am I kiddin'? What the hell would I do out in the country? I look down at Billy, n' she knows what I'm thinkin'. Her eyes beg me to go wit' her, but I can't.

Her whimperin' starts again, n' I'm tempted to whimper, too. I crouch down on one knee, rubbin' Billy's shoulders n' ears. She looks at me at though I'm betrayin' her.

"Please don't be mad, Billy," I say. "I can't take care of ya out there. They got more food, so I don't think they'll eat dogs. It'll be a better life for ya, but the city's for me. You understand, don't ya?" Billy's eyes is filled with confusion. No, she don't understand. How could she? She's just a dumb mutt.

I turn to head back, but Billy tries to follow.

"No!" I snap. "No! Bad Billy." Billy whimpers, but she backs away from me. I push her away wit' my foot, tryin' to get her to go, n' after a while, she realizes that I don't want her anymore. Her eyes seem to ask me, _But why?_ I can't give in, though. _I'm sorry, Gilly. I'll be good, this time,_ she pleads. I kick her lightly n' she yelps n' runs, stoppin' after a while n' lookin' back.

I turn, not wantin' her to see my eyes, n' leave her there, alone. My last memory of Billy is that of her whimperin' n' pleadin', beggin' me to take her back.

I like to think that I'll visit this spot everyday n' look out at the sunset, hopin' that Billy's found a new, better home, but I know better. After a while, I'll forget about her, n' she'll forget about me, n' we'll both move on, livin' our own lives. I guess it's better that way.

I know I'm gonna be in a lot of trouble when I get back to the distillery. I guess I'll just have to face my fate. At least Billy's safe, though. That's all that matters to me, since she was the best friend I ever had, n' I ain't nuttin' but scum.


	13. A Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, had to describe his entire schedule, and I ignored his actual physical and emotional feelings for a reason, since the whole point is that everything is on a schedule, and he will go into so much detail that the whole point of the activity is lost. Basically, I want you, the reader, to be just as exhausted as Burrows at the end of the day, once you finish reading. I would like to think that I will contribute to how well you sleep tonight.
> 
> Just a warning: he has sex. I know. I was not originally planning on writing about it, but having him schedule a lovemaking session was just too tempting to pass up. That's the whole reason I'm putting it in there, so, sorry if that ruins your image of Burrows.
> 
> This will also be posted on fanfiction.net and on my tumblr (essie-essex) and my fanfic tumblr (fanfic-haven).

 

* * *

 

_Hiram Burrows_

_"He is driven by obsession, like a madness. Order, he must have all things, in order."  
_

* * *

I wake up, realizing that I have overslept.

"What time is it?" I yell to the guard I keep outside. He does not answer, and I leap out of bed, throwing open the double doors to my room.

Where is everyone? My personal guards are gone, and I see no one patrolling the halls. The walls of light have disappeared, and all of the doors are wide open.

"No, no," I whisper. "This can't be happening." What have I done? How did I oversleep? It must be nearly noon.

I run downstairs, but my legs are heavy, and I cannot travel nearly as fast as I would like.

"Hello?" I yell. I am in the throne room and realize that someone has left the front doors open.

"Fire!" I hear. "The tower is on fire!" I sprint outside, looking around frantically. The people are rioting, and there is nobody there to stop them. Every gate is unlocked, and the crowd bursts in, yelling angrily.

"Sir?" I turn around. Thank the Stars, the guards are here, but there is something wrong, and they smile menacingly, grabbing my shoulders.

"No!" I scream.

"You fool," says one of the guards. "We were here all along, plotting against you, and when you let your guard slip, it was time to strike." I can't breathe. The guards push me from the stairs, and I feel dirty claws grasping at my flesh. They drag me away, heading to the edge of the walls, where there is a sheer drop into the river. I cannot find words. All I can do is scream. My body has stopped working, and I flail weakly. I catch a glimpse of Dunwall Tower, which is in ruins, people climbing its exterior and running inside to steal whatever they can carry.

No. Without me the Empire will fall. I cannot let it happen! It is no use. I feel myself being lifted over the edge, the faces laughing mercilessly.

"All your fault," they say. "Falling asleep on the job. You are no different than us! Incompetent!" I scream as they let go of me, and I fall, my speed picking up as I drop farther. I can feel the wind whooshing on my back and in my ears. The water rushes toward me with frightening speed, and I hold my breath.

Then, everything is blue.

"My Lord?" I am drowning. I cannot swim, and I am drowning. "My Lord?" The voice wakes me from my dream, and I open my eyes with a start. I am panting, and my night shirt is soaked in cold sweat.

"You had the dream again?" says the servant.

"What? What dream are you talking about? I never told you about that," I snap. The boy servant's face turns red.

"Sorry, my Lord. I will fetch your slippers." I eye the boy suspiciously as he crosses the room, bending down to pick up my slippers in the wardrobe. He brings them back to me.

How did he know? Have the servants been talking about me behind my back?

The boy's name is Charley Paine, and he has served me for six months, cleaning and organizing my bedroom and office. I know the names and faces of all of my servants. It is safer that way. Most people don't care to know their servants, but there has been more than one instance of thieves posing as servants, stealing whatever they can get their hands on, in the Estate District. When I was still Spymaster, I remember Lord Beauregard's house was robbed in that very way, and by a _woman_ , no less.

I will never let something like that happen to me.

* * *

 

  
**6:00 a.m.:** _**Out of bed/Morning Routine- Master Bedroom/Bathroom** _

__

Morning is one of the few parts of the days in which I take actual pleasure. My bedroom is catered specifically to my needs and so is organized down to the very last pair of stockings. All jackets are organized by color, and my shirts, a crisp white, are ironed and smooth. There is never a moment that does not go smoothly in the morning. I glide from place to place, knowing exactly where everything is. My clothes for the day are pre-selected, written on a schedule, and so they have already been laid out for me. Everything, from the way I talk to the way I dress is a show of my love for order, and as I see myself in the mirror, I am truly proud.

I have been the most effective spymaster in the history of this Empire, and I became that way through my unwavering goals and clearly dictated rules, and if they were broken, the offender was punished. I cannot afford to be soft. It undermines everything that I have been trying to do. Mercy is for the weak. Only through absolute control can I accomplish my goals. All who work for me are dedicated. There are no corrupt guards here, so that no one will try paying them off. It will not work, and if someone does attempt to bribe one of my men, he will come straight to me, and I will make sure that the offender is punished like the rat he is.

The Empress would not allow me to have control, and I could not do my job if she kept undermining all that I tried to do. If I gave an order, she would say that it was too strict. Why am I here if I cannot do my job? She was soft. Her womanly love would have brought down this entire Empire, all for the sake of mercy and empathy, and her daughter was even worse.

Jessamine just let that child run loose, like a wild animal. I remember that for my birthday, Emily ran up to me with a picture she had colored. It was supposed to be me in the picture, but when I saw it, I was appalled. I remember thinking, _this girl will be Empress one day, and nobody is preparing her. She can't even color inside the lines._ I took the abomination of a picture and burned it as soon as the girl was out of my sight. It was clear that some changes needed to be made.

So, I made them. I risked _my own_ position for the Empire, and now I am being punished for it. _Punished._ The only wrong I have done is allowing the incompetent to partake in _my_ plans. Having them carry out even simple tasks was a mistake. _All_ they had to do was follow _orders_. Sometimes I find myself wondering about the security around here. General Tobias is very capable, but that Captain Winslow is softer than he should be. A bumbling idiot of a man.

I have enemies around every corner. I cannot afford to let security slip, and I certainly cannot leave Waverly alone and unguarded. Not while she has connections to me. Ah, yes, Waverly-my love. One of the few competent people I know. She knows when to set rules and when to punish. She believes in the importance of security and order every bit as much as I. And when we-

"Lord Regent?"

I don my jacket, turning to the Lower Guard at the door.

"Yes? What is it?" I turn back to the mirror to adjust my collar.

"I was told to deliver your schedule for today," the boy says quietly. I narrow my eyes. He is not the usual boy who delivers my schedule.

"And who are you?" I turn.

"Marcus Alsworth, sir- um, Lord Regent. I am filling in for Philip, today."

"You're filling in for a servant?" I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, s-Lord Regent." He bows.

"Leave it on the nightstand," I say, waving my hand. "And please close the door behind you."

The boy bows obediently.

* * *

 

**6:30 a.m.: Go over schedule - Master Bedroom**

6:00 a.m.: _Out of bed/Morning Routine - Master Bedroom/Bathroom_

6:30 a.m.: _Go over schedule - Master Bedroom_

7:00 a.m.: _Breakfast - Dining Room_

7:30 a.m.: _Read and Write Letters - Office_

8:00 a.m.: _Sign Papers - Office_

8:30 a.m.: _Meeting with Madame Prudence - Private Lounge_

9:00 a.m.: _Plan additional roadblocks/Adjust existing roadblocks - Maps Room_

9:30 a.m.: _Discuss budget with Coinmaster Gillen - East Wing Lounge_

10:00 a.m.: _Read over notes of recent changes in policy - Office_

10:30 a.m.: _Meeting with General Tobias - East Wing Lounge_

11:00 a.m.: _Walk Tower Grounds - Dunwall Tower_

11:30 a.m.:

12:00 p.m.: _Check in with the Office_

12:30 p.m.:

1:00 p.m.: _Lunch with Lord Custis Pendleton) - South Terrace_

1:30 p.m.:

2:00 p.m.: _Write up City Watch orders - Office_

2:30 p.m.: _Check in with Captain Winslow on Tower security - Security Office_

3:00 p.m.: _Meeting with new High Overseer, Teague Martin - East Wing Lounge_

3:30 p.m.:

4:00 p.m.: _Attend interrogation of Darren Gallagher - Interrogation Room_

4:30 p.m.: _Snack - Bedroom Terrace_

5:00 p.m.: _Walk Tower Grounds - Dunwall Tower_

5:30 p.m.: _Check on tailor's progress on costumes for the Ladies Boyle - Basement_

6:00 p.m.: _Get fitted for new jacket - Tailor Room_

6:30 p.m.: _Freshen up before dinner - Master Bedroom/Bathroom_

7:00 p.m.: _Dinner with Waverly - Private Dining Room_

7:30 p.m.:

8:00 p.m.: _Entertain Waverly - Private Lounge_

8:30 p.m.:

9:00 p.m.: _Foreplay and Intercourse with Waverly - Master Bedroom_

9:30 p.m.: _Nap - Master Bedroom_

10:00 p.m.: _Bath with Waverly - Bathroom_

10:30 p.m.: _Waverly leaves - Basement Side Door_

11:00 p.m.: _Retire to bed - Master Bedroom_

11:30 p.m.

* * *

 

**7:30 a.m.: Read and Write Letters - Office**

_Lord Regent,_

_As a loyal and dedicated citizen of the Empire and a follower of the Abbey, I must inform you of some goings on within Dunwall Tower. I have come into some information about the servants and guards. It seems they have been having, ah, how shall I put this? Relations-within the Tower walls. I was always told that you run a tight ship, but I cannot help but doubt this now that I have learned that you allow this behavior to commence within your halls, and I have to say, I am disappointed. You see, not even a month ago, I sent my daughter, Sylvia, to you to work as a servant. She does not want to marry the man I have chosen for her, and I wanted to teach her what happens to young women who do not marry. The girl has never done a full day's hard work-_

Neither have you, you fat aristocrat.

- _and I wanted to show her how difficult life can be for single women. Well, imagine my surprise when, just a few days ago, I received a letter from my dear daughter, telling me that she is running away with a City Watch Guard named Bruno-yes, an awful name-Bruno Fisher, no less, to Serkonos. You and I both know that there is no way of getting to Serkonos during these times, but I have been informed by a certain Lord Ramsey (perhaps you have heard of him?) that there are still a few ships headed there, and for the right amount of coin, they will take passengers. Sylvia's account at the Bank of the Isles has been cleared out, and I worry that she has made her way to one of these ships. They are full of strange men, and if they find out who she is, well, it could be disastrous for her and for the family. My daughter also informed me that she carries this lowly guard's child. I truly believed that my daughter would be safe in your hands, and I am truly appalled that you have allowed this to happen. I am afraid that my vote may not be available to you in the future. However, if you are able to fix this situation, and keep it quiet, I may change my mind-for a good price, of course._

 

_\- Lord Quentin Pierce_

_Lord Pierce,_

_I am as much as concerned as you regarding this matter, as it has not been brought to my attention until now. However, I know every single guard and servant in my halls, and I have never heard of a Bruno Fisher, nor have I met your daughter, Sylvia. I am aware that the girl is sixteen years old, but she has never been a servant at Dunwall Tower. I am not mistaken in this. It is fact. Also, I must say that your daughter is quite talented. She has not been with child for long, and yet she is positive that she carries this guard's child, and there are absolutely no ships leaving anywhere from Dunwall's docks. Perhaps you are mistaken and must read your daughter's letter again. I wish you the best in finding your Sylvia, and perhaps you might check your country home near Potterstead, where she has been for the last month after leaving, by coach, on the first of the month-with you, surprisingly. I hope this response has been helpful, and I look forward to seeing you in Parliament when you return, where I will give you the same pay as always for your vote._

 

_Regards,_

_The Lord Regent, Hiram Burrows_

* * *

 

  
**8:30 a.m.:** _**Meeting with Madame Prudence - Private Lounge** _

__

"You're late."

Madame Prudence enters the room looking gaudy as usual and smelling of cheap perfume.

"Only three minutes," she replies, studying her bright red nails.

"I was led to believe that you and I share the same passion for making good use of our time." _Only_ three minutes. Please. She has thrown my entire day off even more than it was before.

"Well, you misunderstood," she says, sitting in the chair across from me. I wince. "I value a schedule in order to make the most out of the day. If my girls are routinely late, that means that I will not be able to schedule as many sessions as the day will allow." Her skin jiggles as she talks, and she crosses her ankle over her knee.

How did I ever get myself involved with this _disgusting_ woman? She carries herself as though she is some woman of class, but anyone can see through her badly-painted face-which seems to be peeling-and her overuse of jewelry, as though she wears every single piece she owns, and, not to mention, her legs are wide open, allowing me to see _everything_ between them.

The silk pants she wears have strings hanging from them and a few runs between the legs, and her white shirt is slightly stained yellow.

She helps herself to the tea, which I have not offered to her yet, and takes a large slurp from the teacup, smacking her lips and running her tongue over her yellowed and blackened teeth.

I can barely keep myself from vomiting.

"Help yourself to the tea," I say. She ignores me.

"I want to know when you plan to take that spoiled brat of a girl from my establishment. The girls are getting suspicious. The girl needs her own room - she is no whore - but I am sure the girls wonder about all the special attention she receives. Plus, the brothel is no place for a young, impressionable empress. She wanders from her room, no matter how many times I lock the door, and creeps about. I'm afraid she may have witnessed a very discrete conversation I had with Custis Pendleton and one of the girls, and if she spies on me in my office, who knows what else she has seen?"

I do not want to think about it.

"It should be soon," I say, giving her my best smile. "Unfortunately, I cannot say for sure when we will be able to move her." _And it irks me to no end._ "We do not even know what to do with her. The most likely course of action will be to send her to Serkonos to become one of the sisters of the Oracular Order."

"And you think that will work?" Madame Prudence says, raising a painted eyebrow. "The girl is sharp. She will not simply forget her past and become a sister."

"If we are able to keep her there long enough, I believe she will. Certain techniques will be used. Ones that can break her and eventually give her a new identity. The mind is very interesting, Madame. Very malleable if the proper technique is used." The Madame slurps her tea.

"Well, please keep in mind that if she stays with me too long, your entire plan will be compromised."

"I will, Madame," I say, bowing my head slightly. "Now, how is she? Is she in good health? Does she-"

"She's quiet - likes to draw pictures most of the time - but she is also a sneak when she becomes bored or restless."

"Yes, the spying. You've mentioned this al-"

"Not _just_ that." She leans forward. "She has found her way to the V.I.P. entrance more than once. I've started locking it, so that she cannot get out, but I am worried that she will try for the front door. We have a shortage of guards, Lord Regent. We need more."

"We _have_ no more," I say, more forcefully than I intended. "I need most of the City Watch here. I can supply you with a few walls of light-"

"Walls of light?" Prudence exclaims. " _Hmph_. And that is supposed to cover the front door? What will I tell my clients after they've been fried to death?"

"Well, you see, they are harmless to those who-"

"I will not have imposing technology scaring away my clients. I have too few already." She plops the teacup down on the table. "One malfunction, and I'll lose my entire clientele!"

Perhaps it would be for the best. The Golden Cat is run by a truly disgusting woman, second only to her diseased whores. Why any man would ever go to that rat-infested place is beyond me. It is filth swathed in velvet and cheap perfume.

Madame Prudence licks her teeth.

"I assure you, Madame, that there has never been a malfunction-"

"I will not use it!" The Madame screeches. "I have risked my reputation and my business to put up with that little brat of a girl. I don't understand why you can't just give me more guards." She takes a cigarette from her pocket.

"There is no smoking in here," I say, with a twist of my mouth. The Madame ignores me, lighting the cigarette and inhaling, then blowing acrid smoke across the room. I have had it with this woman.

"Perhaps we can discuss this at a later time. Miller?" I say, as Madame Prudence opens her mouth in protest. The guard enters the room, lingering by the doorway. "Please, show Madame Prudence the way out." I nod at her. "We will schedule another meeting for later."

The Madame, her mouth still open, stands obediently as Miller takes her arm, lightly guiding her toward the door.

"Take care, Madame," I say. Her mouth closes into a sour pucker, and she says nothing.

* * *

 

**9:30 a.m.: Discuss budget with Coinmaster Gillen - East Wing Lounge**

This ugly, red-faced whale offends my senses with all the sweat pouring from his skin. I must hire a new coinmaster.

* * *

 

**10:30 a.m.: Meeting with General Tobias - East Wing Lounge**

"General Tobias!" I say, standing to shake the man's hand. Now, _this_ is the kind of man I can appreciate. Neat and tidy, organized, and _on time_.

"Lord Regent," he says, bowing.

"Please, call me Hiram," I say, smiling. It is simply a formality, and he knows this. I point at the chair across from me. "Please, sit." General Tobias sits, his back remaining perfectly straight and his shoulders and chin alert. He looks me in the eye.

"How are the wife and children?" I ask, pouring him a cup of tea.

"Fine, fine," the General says. "Dana is thrilled to have two less children in the house. Eunice was recently married to a rich businessman, Marin Argyle."

"Ah, yes, Marin supplies me with all the finest fabrics. Your daughter is very lucky."

"As is Marin. My daughter is a fine woman." The General takes a sip of tea and grimaces, setting the teacup back in the saucer. "And Zachary is in the army, now-a low-ranking officer."

"You must be proud of him," I say.

"Not yet, but once he becomes a general and marries, I will be very satisfied with him."

"Ah." I cross my legs, leaning back in my chair.

"Mariel, I'm afraid, is not doing as well. She wants to study at the Academy of Natural Philosophy. Dana and I have told her many times that a woman should be looking for a husband, but she is young. I hope that she will come to her senses in a few years. Though, I wish she were courting young men now. It will make it much easier for her to find a husband, but she will not take care of her appearance." General Tobias shakes his head. "I worry for her."

"Well, General, you know that I am your friend, and if you should have any trouble with her, let me know. There are plenty of Overseers looking for wives, at the very least, and maybe I know of a few members of the aristocracy who are single. Pratchett, for instance, does not have a wife, and neither does Mr. Bunting, the art dealer who lives on John Clavering Boulevard. Maybe I could even speak with one of the Pendletons. How does that sound? Your own daughter, Lady Mariel Pendleton." General Tobias gives me an unconvincing smile, moving the corners of his lips slightly upward. I notice that his shoulders have tensed.

"That is very noble of you, Lord Regent."

"It is nothing," I say, waving my hand in front of me. "You are one of the few competent people around here. It's a shame that people like you and me are so rare these days. I hope to fix that. So, how is the City Watch doing?"

General Tobias clears his throat.

"Well, first I actually wanted to discuss a letter, well, _two_ letters I very recently received from Captain Glenn at The Golden Cat and General Turnbull." I furrow an eyebrow.

"Turnbull?" I set my teacup back in its saucer on the table. "What did he say?" After my meeting with Madame Prudence, the _last_ thing I want to hear about is the Golden Cat.

"Well, Lord Regent." General Tobias shifts in his chair-a very unusual gesture for a man of such discipline. "The General had business at Barrister Timsh's estate."

"Yes, Arnold. He and I have a very close relationship. He would be a very capable man if it weren't for his womanizing." This seems to be a weakness among a majority of the aristocracy. "Yes? And what happened?"

"Well, General Turnbull arrived at Timsh's home to find all of the guards dead. It seems they were all killed quickly, and most without warning. Inside the building it was no different. _All_ of the guards-both City Watch and army-dead and left right where they dropped. Even Captain Blossom, who was in charge of the City Watch at the estate."

"And _Arnold?_ " I narrow my eyes, leaning forward slightly.

"I am afraid the Barrister was also killed, and his niece, Thalia is missing. Her bodyguard was found dead in a back alley near the Waterfront along with a few members of the Hatters Gang."

"Do you think _they_ did this?"

"I do not believe so, Lord Regent. At first I thought it might be the masked felon who killed Campbell, but this was especially brutal-not even close to the same style as the man who was spotted at the Abbey. He killed, but only a few. This was just a complete massacre."

I feel bile rising in my throat and attempt to swallow it down. This _idiot_ in front of me means to say that the City Watch could have done _nothing_ to prevent this. It is sheer incompetence that caused this and Campbell's murder as well.

"I thought I said that security should be tight. I thought you said that I did not have to worry." General Tobias bows his head.

"I apologize profusely, Lord Regent. I know I have failed you, and I know the Watch has failed you, and I will let you know that we will do everything in our power to not allow this to happen again. We were not prepared, and now we will be-"

"That is what you said before!" I snap. The General falls silent. "What am I to do? I would run the City Watch myself, but there are not enough hours in the day for me to do so, which means that I must continue to let _you_ do it. If that is to happen, you will listen to me right now, and when you leave this room, you will do _exactly_ as I order. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord Regent." General Tobias looks me in the eye.

"Dunwall Tower needs tighter security. Make sure there are guards at _each_ gate, and I mean the guards. The ones with armor, not the little schoolboys. I will write to Sokolov to see if he can look into making any more tallboys. There are not nearly enough here, and I want them in the Estate District as well, particularly around the Boyle Mansion. Do you think you can do these simple tasks without disobeying me or making any more treacherous mistakes?" General Tobias gulps.

"Yes, Lord Regent."

"Good." I say, settling back into my chair. I can feel the blood draining from my face and realize that it must have turned quite red. My neck and back are stiff. "Now, what was the other news? From Captain Glenn?" The General stays silent for a few moments before answering.

"Well, it seems that Lady Emily has gone missing, and the Pendleton Twins are dead. I apologize Lord Regent. I only learned of this news a mere hour ago." I stare, wide-eyed, at the General, my mouth hanging open. "Perhaps this masked felon is not simply an anti-religion radical."

* * *

 

I have only just stepped out of the lounge when Marcus Alsworth runs up to me holding a piece of paper.

"Lord Regent, a letter for you. It was just delivered by boat."

_Lord Regent,_

_I am sure that by now you have heard of my brothers' untimely passing. I am in mourning as of now, but I am aware that I now have the responsibility over my family's votes. I believe you had a meeting set up with my brothers today? I hope you do not mind if I attend instead. I am sure our relationship will be just as rewarding as was yours with my brothers._

_Sincerely,_

_Lord Treavor Pendleton_

* * *

 

  
**1:00 p.m.: Lunch with Lord** **~~Custis~~** **Treavor Pendleton - South Terrace**

"I hope I am not _too_ late," Lord Pendleton says, taking his seat at the table.

He is sixteen minutes late. _Sixteen._

"Of course not," I say, rather unconvincingly. Lord Pendleton shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He wears all black-his mourning clothes-and his skin has already started to burn in the sun. "I have heard some rumors that you have been away from the manor for a while."

"Yes, yes, I've been staying at the family's vacation home out in the country." Pendleton squints.

I swallow. These nobles truly do believe they are above the law.

"I was not aware that I had given any of the aristocracy permission to leave the city," I say, attempting to hold the anger from my voice.

"Well, with the plague, I figured I would take some time away. Only my brothers were needed in the city, after all."

"Of course. I am happy to grant you some vacation time. We are both on the same side, after all," I reply.

"Yes, indeed," says Lord Pendleton. "I have to say that your policies are what we need at the moment, even if they make some of the, ah, lesser people a bit uncomfortable."

"Well, Custis was a brilliant businessman," I say. "I assume you are the same?" Lord Pendleton's eyes grow wide, and his feet start to shake.

I find that most of the aristocracy is completely useless, but Custis Pendleton was one of the rare gems. Sharp and smart, _organized_ , always on time-usually dragging his lesser twin, Morgan, behind him. Not only would the twins sell their votes to me, but Custis made extra money kicking plague victims from their homes. That man knew how to make money. It's a shame he's gone now.

"Well," Lord Pendleton says, taking a sip of tea. "I was not taught as well as my brother, but I believe that good business sense is in the Pendleton family. All of us have it." He takes another sip. "Do you happen to have anything stronger than this?"

"Yes, of course," I say, noting the hunger in the lord's bloodshot eyes. "Mabel," I say, holding my hand in the air. The maid scurries to the table, and I look to Lord Pendleton.

"Brandy," he says, before I can ask.

"Brandy," she repeats. "Would you like anything else?"

"Well, dear, we _are_ supposed to be having lunch right now," I say.

"Yes, Lord Regent, I will go check on the kitchen." She bows to both of us and scurries away again. I cannot help but notice the way Lord Pendleton looks after her. He turns back to me, his usual air of boredom settling back onto his face.

"Well," he says, picking up his teacup and then setting it back down. He puts his fingers around its edges, turning it in the saucer. "I have to ask, where are you getting your funding for all of this, ah, new security?" I try not to show my suspicion.

"Oh, here and there. My supporters are not shy with their donations, but I have heard that you are having financial problems, Lord Pendleton?" I ask, changing the subject. Lord Pendleton's jaw drops open.

"W-Why - " he stutters. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, your brothers were very happy to receive a handsome amount of coin in exchange for voting in my favor," I say. "I had hoped to make you the same offer."

"How much coin?" Lord Pendleton asks, his interest piqued. He raises an eyebrow.

"I paid your brothers-ah!" The food arrives, and Lord Pendleton and I watch silently as plates of oysters, freshly-sliced fruit, small sandwiches, and assorted cheeses are set on the table. "The food is here," I say. "Let us discuss this after we have eaten." Lord Pendleton nods graciously.

"Do you need anything else, my Lords?" one of the servants says, bowing.

" _Brandy_ ," Lord Pendleton snaps. The servant jumps, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. I will have to remind the head servant to speak to the staff about the importance of a neat and tidy appearance. She hardly looks professional. She might as well be serving at some pub. "Of course," the servant says, turning to leave.

"Well, shall we eat?" I say, giving Lord Pendleton my best smile. His face droops, the bags under his eyes looking heavier than usual.

"Of course," he says, sighing, and he takes an apple slice, setting it on his plate.

* * *

 

**2:30 p.m.: Check in with Captain Winslow on Tower security - Security Office**

"No, no, no!" The young Lower Watch Guard stares up at me with wet eyes. _This_ is who I have guarding Dunwall Tower. "Do _none_ of you halfwits know how to follow orders?" I clench my fists. "I specifically said that _both_ sides of the bridge be guarded at _all_ times."

"I-I only had to take a quick piss, sir-I mean, Lord Regent."

I grimace at the boy's graphic language.

"From now on, I _only_ want Officers guarding the Tower," I say.

"Of course Lord Regent." Captain Winslow nods. I turn to leave, but he continues. "However-"

" _What?"_ I ask. I rub my temples with my fingers. I can feel a headache coming on.

"We don't have many Officers left, Lord Regent. With all of them guarding the aristocra-"

"I'm sure they won't miss a few of their guards, just _get_ them. Use Overseers if you must. I want this place well-secured when I return tomorrow." Damn, I hope this headache doesn't get any worse.

"We won't let you down." Captain Winslow turns and stands at the end of the bridge, and I head back inside, leaving the sniveling Watch boy behind.

* * *

 

**3:00 p.m.: Meeting with High Overseer Teague Martin - East Wing Lounge**

The new High Overseer. Campbell's replacement. It is important for me to win the favor of this man. If he is anything like Campbell, it will not be too difficult.

"What do you want?" I ask High Overseer Martin. "Name anything."

"What do I want? Oh, I could think of a few things," Martin replies leaning back and resting his arm on the top of the chair.

Good. He and Campbell _are_ alike. Martin strokes his chin thoughtfully, his gloves brushing over the rough stubble growing from his skin. He certainly is good at wasting time.

"Well, first there are the basics," Martin tells me. "I will need plenty of food, drink- _fine_ drink, that is."

"Of course." I nod.

"Elixir, a fine home-"

"Yes, yes. All of that will be provided for you, High Overseer, as it was with Campbell. After all you have done as an Overseer; it is what you deserve," I say, waving my hand. Martin shakes his head.

"What have the other Overseers said about me?" he asks, sitting back casually in his chair and crossing his ankle over his knee. He takes a deep breath and stretches.

"Well," I start, noting the man's casual manner. "I have heard nothing but good reviews from Overseers. I heard you were the one to capture Overseer... Jasper, is it? The one who broke Corvo out of Coldridge."

"Yes, Jasper," Martin replies. "It is a shame that I did not catch him earlier. Then, perhaps this whole mess could have been avoided." _Indeed, it could have._

"Indeed," I say. "But, I believe all of this might turn out for the best. You and Campbell are alike, and I assume Lord Treavor Pendleton shares the same, ehm, sentiments as his brothers."

"I see," Martin says, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps we are all fortunate." I nod. "Now," Martin continues, "My own... private excursions-"

"To the Golden Cat, yes, yes," I say, waving my hand. "The Madame has agreed to give you the same privileges as were given to Campbell. I only hope that you are a bit more even-tempered than your predecessor."

"Of course." Martin nods gracefully.

"You will also acquire Campbell's vacation homes in the country on Gristol and on Serkonos. You will receive a fixed sum of coin every month, and of course, the Overseers have free reign and may enforce the will of the Abbey using its own methods."

"Good." Martin stretches. "Also-"

"More?" Perhaps this one is greedier.

"A nice, handwritten copy of the Litany and the Seven Strictures. I _am_ the most pious man in the Empire, you know. My reputation might be ruined if the Overseers discover that I do not own a copy of either anymore."

He thinks he's funny.

"I have to ask," I ignore his request. "How were you chosen as the new High Overseer? I was led to believe that only child initiates are given the Abbey's most important positions."

"Campbell was not a child initiate," Martin points out.

"Well... yes, but, Campbell had his own way of influencing others. One that you do not have."

"Now, how would you know that?" Martin smirks. "I found out about that book the day I arrived to the Office of the High Overseer. I've always had my eye on it."

"I see." I narrow my eyes. Perhaps this man will not be as easily dealt with as I hoped. "So, you have acquired the book?"

"Yes. He kept it on him at all times, so it was easy to take. I am afraid I was there when the former High Overseer was murdered."

"Really?" I say. "I had no idea."

"Not too many people know who was there," Martin says, shrugging.

"So you _stole_ the book from Campbell? Is that what you're telling me?" Who does he think I am? "You do realize that I highly disapprove of criminals?" Martin lets out a small chuckle, closing his eyes and looking down. He takes a deep breath and then looks me in the eye.

"You cannot steal from a dead man, Lord Regent." He chuckles again, as though I am some ignorant child. "I took it, and it's mine now."

I study the High Overseer's face, noting every twitch of the mouth and glimmer of the eye. Can I truly trust this man? Campbell and I were alike, despising weakness and wanting to clear Dunwall of its parasites. The rest could be contained through the Abbey. But this _Teague_ Martin-ah, yes, from the moment I heard his name, I noted its Morlish origins-he is no pure-blooded Gristian. He could be just as bad as that _Serkonan_ Royal Protector I had to work alongside so many years. The Morlish are not exactly a cooperative and obedient people. Before the plague, they had already given me enough of a headache, and these Morlish are all alike. Sneaky and traitorous, slithering through the sewers and popping up from the ground to stab you in the back before you even know they are there.

No. No, I cannot trust him. I do not like how easily he slipped into Campbell's place. I cannot let some minnow rule over the entire Abbey.

I note the way he sits back in his chair, as though he were relaxing in his own home. Does he realize with whom he speaks? I feel my brow furrow in annoyance and take a deep breath through my nose. My jaw clenches. He has a tidy appearance for the most part, but his _face_. He has stubble on his face, and that _smirk_ he wears. I despise people who smile easily. It is undisciplined. Smiling should only happen at the appropriate time, and this is not it.

He is no Campbell. He is loose. Though he may look strong at first, his insides are soft. This is a man who does not value hard work. This is the kind of man who expects everything to come to him easily. The kind of man who closes his eyes and shoots in battle, somehow managing to defeat his enemies through luck alone and returning with not one scratch on his unstained body.

I will have to do something about this. I stand.

"Well, thank you, High Overseer. This was a very nice discussion," I say, holding out my hand. Martin stands and shakes it, looking me in the eye, still with that repugnant smirk on his face.

"Yes, Lord Regent. I am looking forward to working with you."

"That is my sentiment as well." I bow. "I'm afraid I have other business to which I must attend. Perhaps we should get together for dinner sometime next week? I have a lovely apartment in my lighthouse on Kingsparrow Island."

"That sounds lovely," Martin says, his smile growing wider. I give him a polite upward turn of the mouth. "I will be looking forward to our dinner next week, so I hope you will attempt to make ample time for me in your busy schedule. I'd be devastated if you cancelled. Remember." He gestures toward me with his hand. " 'Restrict the Lying Tongue.' " I stare him down, coldly.

"Marcus will show you out," I say as we leave the lounge, and the servant hurries over, bowing and then pointing Martin in the right direction.

"May the spirits guide you, Lord Regent."

* * *

 

**4:00 p.m.: Attend the interrogation of Darren Gallagher - Interrogation Room**

I arrive to the smell of burning flesh. The Royal Interrogator, or the Torturer as others call him, stands face-to-face with a Morlishman hanging from a meat hook.

"Ugh," I gasp, putting a handkerchief to my face. Bile rises in my throat, and I force myself to swallow it down. The man is alive, but weak, his skin and muscle stretching and tearing from the weight of his body on the hook. "I _told_ you I didn't want this to be messy!" I say. The Interrogator stares at me from afar, his eyes empty and dumb. "Put him in the chair," I say, waving toward a wooden contraption nailed to the floor. Sullivan obeys, lifting the man from the hook-I hear him groan-and then dropping him onto the chair, strapping his arms, legs, and neck.

Recently, I commissioned a chair that gives a jolt of electricity to its subject upon flipping a switch from Anton Sokolov. He claims that he has not made it yet, but I heard a rumor not too long ago of a similar chair being used at the Rothwild Slaughterhouse, where Sokolov spends much of his time.

The man sitting in front of me in the interrogation chair is part of a group of Morlish rebels. Most stay in Morley, but some traveled to Gristol before the plague, and there have been reports of Morlish crawling through the sewers.

I am not surprised at all. These Morlish are filthy and difficult creatures.

"Where are your companions?" I say calmly, attempting to look the man in the eye. He moans, his head dropping to his chest - the Interrogator has put him in too much pain already, and he is barely lucid. "Hold his head up," I snap, and the Interrogator puts a beefy hand on the man's chin, wrenching his head upward. "Your pain will end once you tell me." Still the man's eyes do not meet mine. They are unfocused and cloudy. Damn it.

"You've had him hanging from that hook for far too long," I tell the Interrogator. His eyes seem to fill with joy upon my mention of the hook. "Take him upstairs to one of the Officers so he can be taken back to Coldridge. Tomorrow, you will keep him lucid for me." Without another word, I storm upstairs. I do not know why I would expect any better.

* * *

 

**4:30 p.m.: Snack - Bedroom Terrace**

_Daud,_

_Once again, I must commend you on a job superbly done. I was right to have hired you, and so I would like to do so once again. As you may have heard, High Overseer Campbell was mysteriously murdered (I assume you had nothing to do with this), and a rather inferior choice was made when deciding his replacement. I have come to the conclusion that I do not want Teague Martin in the position of High Overseer, and so would like you to eliminate him for me. Enclosed is the standard fee, and I expect the job to be done before next week-_

Spirits _know_ I am not having dinner with that man.

- _and then I will pay you an extra fifty coin. There is no need to reply. I know that you are one of the very few men on which I can count._

 

_H.B._

There really should be more men like us in the world. There are too many soft imbeciles in charge these days.

* * *

 

**6:00 p.m.: Get fitted for new jacket - Tailor's Room**

"This will look just wonderful on you, Lord Regent." Court measures my arm, holding a notepad in his mouth and a pencil behind his ear. His shirt is partially untucked, and it seems as though he has not brushed his hair in ages. Why I allow a man so unkempt to fit me for a coat is beyond me.

"Excuse me, Lord Regent." One of the City Watchmen stands behind me. I look at his reflection through the mirror.

"Yes, Miller?" I say.

"You have a visitor. Lady Boyle. We've escorted her to the southwest parlor."

_Waverly?_

"But she is not supposed to arrive for another hour!" I say, feeling my shoulders become rigid. My heart beats fast in my chest, and I rip the coat from my arms.

"L-Lord Regent?" Court says, plucking the coat from the floor. "Shall we reschedule for tomorrow at the same time?" I feel sweat pouring down the back of my neck, and I take a deep breath.

"Yes," I say, waving him away. "Speak to my assistant. He'll schedule you in." Miller helps me don my usual jacket, and I follow him upstairs, all the while squeezing my fingernails into my palms.

An _hour_ early. Could something be wrong? My mind goes through all the possibilities, but I cannot imagine what would bring Waverly to do such a thing. Does she not understand that I have a schedule to which I must adhere? I cannot simply ignore my duties, even for love.

An image of Waverly's face forms in my mind. She _is_ beautiful. Completely flawless. Just perfect. I have never met any woman like her. Waverly is not _soft_. No, not at all. She is sharp and focused. She knows what needs to be done-except in the case of her useless sisters. Waverly is blinded by her love for them, and it is her only weak spot. If there were something I could do...

Writing Daud once more will have to wait.

She rests in one of the chairs, sipping a cup of tea, her legs crossed. She wears white-a color in which I very much like her-and a pastel-yellow shirt under her jacket.

I stand in the doorway to appreciate her for another moment. I must say that I despise how she makes me feel. With her, I am _weak._ But I cannot seem to help myself, no matter what I do. I have always considered myself to be a well-disciplined man, but Waverly is able to take my focus away from me. With her, I almost feel...

No, it is nothing but weakness, but I love her, and I cannot stop myself from doing so.

"Lady Boyle," I say, holding the edges of my jacket. "Miller, that will be all. Tell the other guards to wait at the end of the hallway." I shoo him away.

"Yes, sir," Miller says, turning for the door.

I wait until his footsteps have become faint to close the door.

"Waverly, _what_ in the Outsider's name are you doing here?"

"Was I not invited over for dinner?" she says, as though _I_ am in the wrong.

"Well, yes, but I was not expecting you for another _hour_. My entire day has been thrown off already, and I had to cut some of my time short. What am I supposed to do, simply drop everything and cater to you? Sometimes, you are so _typical_ of the aristocracy."

"But, still you love me," Lady Boyle purrs. I take a deep breath.

"Yes, yes, I do." _Weakness._

"Well, if you cannot fit me into your schedule, I suppose I will wait here until it is time for dinner," says Waverly.

"Very well, then. I must at least tidy up my office before we dine. I should like to change my clothes as well," I say. "Why don't you have one of the guards escort you to the tailor? Your costume is nearly finished."

Waverly smiles and stands.

"Of course," she says, taking my arm, and I leave her with Miller before heading upstairs to my quarters.

_Damn_ the aristocracy. Are they not supposed to be at the top of our society? How then is it that they cannot arrive anywhere on time?

* * *

 

**7:00 p.m.: Dinner with Waverly - Private Dining Room**

"Why is it that people like you and me are so rare these days? I try. I try my best, and I do my best, but then some simpleton doesn't follow orders, and my whole plan falls through! Why can't these people actually be useful for once? First Campbell dead, and then the Pendletons-and nobody even sees the murder or the murderer. This masked felon is just an ordinary man. It is incompetence-the incompetence of the City Watch and the Abbey-that let that scum slip through so easily. Well, I will not have it here. You and I are too smart to let our guards fall asleep on the job."

"I certainly hope my guards are competent enough to protect me," Waverly says. "My party is tomorrow night, after all. I cannot have any unwanted guests crawling their way through my estate."

"I've ordered the City Watch to send more guards for your party, dear. I would never want anything to happen to you." _Your sisters, however..._

"I _do_ wish you would come, Hiram," Waverly purrs.

"I know, dear, but you know I cannot. I will only put you in danger. This masked felon is sending me a message, and I am afraid he will come for you if word of our-arrangement-gets out."

"I know, I know," Waverly says, a slight frown on her face.

Our food cools before our eyes, but I prefer to wait twenty minutes after the taste tester samples each dish before I eat my food. Waverly is the only person who sees the reason for this and does the very same thing herself-her sisters calling her "paranoid" or "crazy". It is simple common sense that people of our importance would have enemies just waiting to harm us at the first chance. Neither Waverly nor I want to give them that first chance. I will not be so foolish as to let my guard down.

* * *

 

**9:00 p.m.: Foreplay and Intercourse with Waverly - Master Bedroom**

Waverly has kept me waiting for five minutes, and I rest under the covers in my bed, tapping my finger on the mattress. She disappeared into the bathroom and has not returned yet, but soon the door opens, and my breath catches as she steps out in front of me wearing some ridiculous outfit.

"What do you think?" asks Waverly. "I can be your Pandyssian slave girl tonight. Or perhaps your Golden Cat courtesan?" She sways toward me in her red, lacy bustier.

"What is this?" I demand. Waverly shakes her hips back and forth.

"It's a dance they do in Serkonos... my _Lord_ ," says Waverly. "I thought it would please you." She puts on a fake pout. "See? The trick is to isolate your hips." She shakes rapidly. "Or, I can do this as well." Her belly undulates like a snake. "The dance is usually done to music, but... I didn't think it would be proper to invite the musicians to our lovemaking session. Unless, you believe differently?" She smirks mischievously.

"No, no," I exclaim. "Just - take that off!"

"As you wish, my Lord," says Waverly.

"And stop calling me that! Just do your regular thing. I like it. I've _always_ liked it. There was no need for you to _change_ anything," I whine. Waverly frowns genuinely now.

"I just thought I'd do something special for you," she says, turning her nose up. "But, I suppose we can just do the same thing we always do."

"Good," I say sharply. Waverly unceremoniously removes the red, lacy garment, and now I see her in all her glory. "Good," I repeat. Softer this time.

Waverly is truly my match. Sharp and beautiful, she runs her business with an iron fist. Oh, how I love staying up with her complaining about the incompetence of all who work for me. She is the only one who understands. Though, at times she can be... spontaneous, which I do not like. As we have grown to know each other, it has become more frequent, and I fear that I may have to discuss it with her. She knows I love organization. She does as well, but in my schedule, there is no room for surprises. Apparently, that is where we differ. I cannot resist her, though. It is a horrible weakness of mine. One that I loathe, but I am getting funding out of this arrangement. So, it is practical in its own way.

Though Waverly is young, she is still mature, running her family's business and organizing the funds, her lazy sisters clinging to her, like leeches. Really, she should just get rid of them, as they are of no use to anyone. The eldest one cannot keep her legs shut, and the middle one is a - _musician_. Is there anything worse than a creative type, believing that her musical talent is an actual useful skill? I would never tolerate that in my family. People like that are nothing but complete wastes of human beings.

Waverly lies on the bed next to me. Yes, yes, now this is what I know and love. Foreplay is divided into two parts. For the first, I lie down next to her, kissing her lips - one second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, five seconds, six seconds, seven seconds, eight seconds, nine seconds, ten seconds should do it. Then, I move on to her cheek as I make my way to her neck. She likes this much more, so I give it one second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, five seconds, six seconds, seven seconds, eight seconds, nine seconds, ten seconds, eleven seconds, twelve seconds, thirteen seconds, fourteen seconds, fifteen seconds, sixteen seconds, seventeen seconds, eighteen seconds, nineteen seconds, twenty seconds, twenty-one seconds, twenty-two seconds, twenty-three seconds, twenty-four seconds, twenty-five seconds, twenty-six seconds, twenty-seven seconds, twenty-eight seconds, twenty- nine seconds, thirty seconds. Then, it is her ear for five and back to the neck. I make my way downward to her collarbone, kissing from left to right and then right to left again, and then to her breasts, left then right. My lips trail down the middle of her torso, stopping neatly below the navel. Perfect. Now, on to foreplay, part two.

I run my fingertips over her skin, once again starting up and making my way down. Neck, one, two, three, four, five, shoulders, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, arms, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, breasts, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, waist, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, belly, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, hips, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, and thighs, thirty six, thirty seven, thirty eight, thirty nine, forty. Then I move my hands to her inner thighs, pulling her legs apart and caressing them up and down. I can feel her warmth as I move my hands up, but I do not touch. It is not the proper way.

I am quite hard at this point, and Waverly looks to be ready as well. So, I move on to the next stage: Intercourse. Over the course of our lovemaking career, I have had to adjust the schedule to meet Waverly's needs. It bothered me at first, but we have found one that works, now, and I have grown accustomed to it. Mostly, the foreplay stage just needed to be lengthened, but in order to have a successful session, I had to lengthen the intercourse stage as well.

I now count one thrust every second, until I reach a minute and then start over again for a total of eleven minutes and forty-seven seconds. Waverly reaches orgasm first, and then I - having held out the entire time - shortly afterward.

It is a success. I can relax, now, and I lie next to Waverly, holding her in my arms and then promptly fall asleep.

I nap for twenty minutes, and once I awake, Waverly and I head to the bath. While I nap, I have a servant run the bath, so it is ready for us by the time we enter the room. The large, tub has been built into the ground and the water is accented with oils of orris root and sandalwood and sprinkled with rose petals.

We relax, letting the water soak into our bodies, and Waverly tells me of her day. This is what I truly enjoy. Waverly's thoughts match my own. When she speaks, it is as if she reads my thoughts - she tells me of the sloppiness and general incompetence of those around her, and we take pleasure in knowing that we are better than that. We are _so_ much better.

* * *

 

  
**11:00 p.m.:** _**Retire to bed - Master Bedroom** _

__

Waverly has left, and I make my way to my bedroom, making sure that the servants have properly organized my office desk before retiring. My head seems to buzz as I stare at my bed. Yes, I would like rest, but with sleep comes dreams, and those I truly despise far more than anything else. But, in the morning, I am able to awaken, knowing that I am in full control. Yes, _full control. Over myself, over others, and over the entire Empire. And what a wonderful Empire it has become._


	14. The Comedy of Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence.

Male Survivor

_"He didn't tend to that cut, and now it festers."_

* * *

The Empire would look back on The Second Immigrant District Riot, calling it "the worst riot in the history of Dunwall since the First Immigrant District Riot."

The history books will all say that it started with a little boy. He was lost and alone... and sick. Wandering the streets, not knowing where or even who he was. I never saw him. I hear from some that the boy's eyes bled and from others that they didn't. That he was just an innocent boy.

There is no debate about what happened to the boy, though. Two lower members of the Morlish mob, Calhoun and Kinney, spotted heading toward Morlish territory. No, he was not quite there, but those men swore up and down that the boy's eyes bled. So, they put a bullet between his eyes. The boy was eight years old. Serkonan. And little did Calhoun and Kinney know that there was a witness.

An old Serkonan woman by the name of Delfina - a witch, it was said by some, and an Oracle, by others - ran to the Serkonan mob, asking for coin in exchange for vital information.

"The boy, I saw," she said. "Oh, yes, yes, I was there. I can tell you what my eyes show me, but not without a price." They paid her ten coin, and she counted it greedily in her bony fingers.

"The boy," she started, her voice crackling, like a wood fire. "Little boy. Black hair, sun-touched skin, his eyes dark and red. He walked as something dead, mindless. No one could rouse him. Then, the two men, yes, the pale ones with dark hair and eyes like glowing moss. The men walked as those with minds clouded by spirits. Neither men nor boy were truly there. The men, they call him "little toaster".

" ' Little Toaster Boy,' they said. 'You drink too much? You smell like two toasters, fat ones, put together.' They laughed. Yes, but little boy, he don't answer. Instead, he bled. The two pale men look scared of boy. They told him to go away, but he walked and bled and walked and bled. The tall, pale man was the first to take out his weapon, for what else do men do when they are scared? It was the other who told him to shoot.

" ' Shoot the boy," he said. 'He will kill us all with the plague.' But the tall one didn't want to shoot, so the shorter one shot for him. But the boy, he walked and bled, walked and bled. The man shot again. Walk and bleed, walk and bleed. Again. Walk and bleed. The men, they were filled to the brim with horror at the walking dead boy who bled - "

"Wait," says one of the Serkonan gangsters. "You are blind, are you not?"

"I need not my eyes to see, dear," says Delfina. "And I need not tell you that eventually, the boy stopped walking and then stopped bleeding."

The gangsters were suspicious, but it was enough to know that the two Morlishmen had killed the boy. They got a group together to retaliate.

Some versions of the story say that the Serkonans were the ones to start slaughtering all the Morlish folk, and others say that they only killed the two men, and that it was the Morlish who slaughtered the Serkonans in retaliation. As the story spread, it was warped, and the Tyvians, believing the boy was one of them and that his attackers were either Morlish or Serkonan, attacked every non-Tyvian on sight. Some even believed that the Pandyssians had killed the boy, popping from the ground below, like worms, and using witchcraft on him, making him walk while he bled. It is said that Delfina was killed as well, though nobody knows which side did it. It would make more sense for the Morlish to kill her, but the way it was done was barbaric. Her eyes had been scooped out and taken. Well, by dawn the next day, the entire district had erupted.

I cannot confirm any of this, because I was not present for it. However, for the riot, not only was I present - I was far too close.

The beginning of the day did not start out well for me. I had been robbed by a child - a little boy - as I walked to my apartment. He was Morlish, same as me, but he carried a small pocket knife with him.

"Gimme yer money!" he demanded, flailing the knife in front of me. I did not know what else to do, so I cooperated with him.

"Okay," I said, slowly reaching for my pouch. I gave him the few coins that I had, but the boy was not satisfied.

"Gimme that, too," he said, pointing to my briefcase.

"This?" I asked him. "No, these are just - " The boy slashed at my arm with his knife, leaving a shallow cut on my hand. The blood slowly rose to the surface, making the small cut into a large, red line.

"Don't you say no to me," yelled the boy. "Now, gimme it!" I handed over my briefcase, and the boy backed away with his knife still pointed at me. Once he had walked far enough away from me, he turned and ran, taking my briefcase with him.

"Well, that's what I get for stealing," I said. I had just come back from the Beauregard Private Library, which was owned by a lord with a taste for math, science, and good literature, but it had recently been closed, due to an outbreak of the plague that was believed to have originated within its walls. Though the library was for members of the upper class only, it was boarded up and abandoned, which made it open to people like me. I had broken my way in, filling an old briefcase full of as many books on natural philosophy as I could.

My interest in natural philosophy was not just a habit. I had applied to the Academy of Natural Philosophy and taken an exam and was waiting to hear back from the school. If I made it into the Academy, I would be the first person from the Immigrant District to be accepted.

I lived in a cheap apartment in the Morlish-owned part of town. When I got home, I studied the cut on my hand. It wasn't too bad; all I had to do was wash it, disinfect it, and cover it. Five minutes at the most, but soon I became distracted by the sound of voices.

I could hear the shouting far off in the distance, but soon, it got closer, as did the smoke. I could hear footsteps in the hall.

"Get up and fight!" said the voice of a man with a very distinct Morlish accent. "Fight for your people! Let's show those toasters and ice-eaters what we think of them." The man knocked loudly at every door he passed. "Grab a weapon. Anything that'll do some damage. If you're old enough to throw a rock, then you can fight. Fight for your people!"

My heart beat in my chest, and I could feel the energy in the air. The shouting was getting closer; I could hear it through my window, now. Angry voices out for human blood. Savages and thieves, all of them.

Despite my new-found hatred of the Serkonans and the Tyvians, I could feel my legs shaking. Surely, I would die out there. Nobody would know if I just... stayed.

Sudden pounding at the door interrupted my thoughts, and I jumped. Surely, they couldn't be here yet.

"Hey" I heard, and upon recognizing the voice, I unbolted the door, swinging it open. My friends, Michael and Quinn stood in front of me, one equipped with a crowbar and the other with a fire poker.

"C'mon," Quinn said, waving me over. "Where's your weapon? Let's go." I searched the room, looking for a suitable weapon, making sure to quickly cover the books on my bed with a blanket before my friends entered. What could I use? A pipe from the sink? I figured that it probably wasn't a good idea to flood my apartment.

"Hold on a minute," Michael said, sighing. He returned with a weapon for me.

A wrench. Perfect.

"We would've missed the whole thing if we let you look for your own weapon," Michael said.

We headed outside, hardly making it off the stoop before running into a crowd.

"I guess we follow," Quinn said. So we followed.

I spied all the familiar shops along the main road, Morlish-owned. Most had closed their curtains and turned off their lights, and I found myself wondering if they had joined the crowd or if they were hiding.

"What's going on?" Quinn said. The crowd had stopped. "Come on." Quinn pushed his way through the crowd, Michael and I following. It seemed as though the sea of people would never end, but soon I saw a flash of red.

"The army," I said. I spied the City Watch behind the red uniformed men. An officer stood on a platform, speaking through a megaphone.

"You will stop this immediately, or we will be forced to intervene." The men stood and kneeled in neat lines, their pistols cocked. Their uniforms seemed almost clown-like with their bright colors among our browns and grays, but with the uniform came dignity. To them, we were nothing but animals.

Even though the officer was on a megaphone, it was still very difficult to hear him. More people noticed the uniformed men and started to throw rocks and bottles.

"Get outta here, ya dandies!" I heard one man shout behind me. "This ain't your place. Go back to the real city, wit' all your precious Gristians n' leave us be!"

"Fuck the Watch!" I heard someone else shout. I could see the men up front, eying each other nervously. Most of them were just boys, but all of my sympathy was lost the moment they started shooting, and soon I found myself holding off hordes of men, both uniformed and not.

Now, the screams were frantic, and I heard women as well.

"Get my Mikael!" I heard one cry. "Get my baby out of there!" Anger turned to fear, but then it turned to rage.

"Kill the City Watch!"

"Slice their fuckin' throats! Bash their brains in!"

The outrage grows.

"Take their fancy guns and helmets! Fight like men, ya fuckin' pussies!"

"Kill the City Watch!"

"Shut up, you fucking ice-eater!"

"Get the minnows!"

"You won't take me alive, you brutes! Cowards!"

Gunfire.

I was lost, and all I could do was survive. Pretty soon, I couldn't even tell who I was hitting anymore. Every face had warped into that of something monstrous. I beat them all down. There was blood everywhere. But then came the fire.

Precious tanks of whale oil fell from windows, hitting both cobblestone and people and then bursting, filling the air with bright, hot, light and black smoke. My ears rang. Clothing, hair, and bodies ignited, becoming torches, beacons of destruction. Fire climbed the walls around us, emptying the buildings of any who sought refuge in their locked apartments.

Now, we were all here.

It was so hot, but we all kept going. To stop was to die.

Bricks, stones, and glass flew, and the fire ate through everything and everyone. The screaming was the worst. The cries of those who burned. Blackened bodies engulfed in flame, dancing and rolling their way to the Void. But there was something wonderful to be found in the chaos. Suddenly, I was powerful. _We_ were powerful.

"Hold him!" I heard, looking to my left to see a pair of Morlish boys attempting to hang a man from a streetlight. I lumbered over to them, dazed, and held the man by his lower torso, while the boys wrapped the rope around his neck.

The Serkonan blubbered and shouted.

"No, no! Please! My family needs me!"

I could smell him. He reeked of sweat and fear, the dirty toaster.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A few Serkonans had come to put us down. They grabbed the boys first, slamming their heads into the cobblestone. I let go of the man, who now strangled from the rope. I think he reached out to the other toasters, but all they wanted was more blood, just as we did. They ignored him, stomping the boys into the ground, until their bones split and their heads cracked. Blood ran under their feet, snaking its way through the cracks in the cobblestone.

I brought my wrench down hard on one of the men's backs, and he turned on me, his nostrils flaring. He felt no pain. The toaster lunged, coming at me with a meat cleaver. I was no fool. I ran, looking for someone else - someone I could take down easily.

I found my friends in an alleyway.

"Get up!" I heard Quinn shout.

"I can't," said Michael. He groaned.

"One of those dirty toasters stabbed him. They stabbed him," Quinn cried.

"He was Tyvian, I think," said Michael.

"Whatever! They're all the same to me, and I'll kill them all."

Why were we angry again? I couldn't remember anymore, but they had stabbed my friend, and that was a good enough reason for me. Quinn and I joined the crowd, losing each other soon after.

I swung my arm in a feverish rage, not caring who I hit. All that mattered was that I was the victor. My victims, their teeth shattered, and their noses smashed, blood spurting from their nostrils, fell before me, defeated. I broke fingers and eye sockets, jaws and eardrums, faces and more faces, and bodies. Bodies everywhere, their insides exposed to the world. That was all they were. Bodies with organs-walking and talking meat. The slaughter was no different than any other.

A Lower Watch Guard pushed me aside. The crowd quickly surrounded them and attacked, giving a group of guards the chance to move past them without being assaulted. I watched them head toward an abandoned building.

The men broke into the building, holding their pistols out in front of them, and rushed inside. Soon, the building was aflame, but the guards remained inside. Some men and boys, wanting to take advantage of the moment, ran inside to loot the place, but one popped his head out, waving to another group and shouting. They all headed into the building and ran outside as soon as they stepped through the doorway, followed by more people.

Pandyssians poured from the building, each one singing in a chorus of screamers. Tall and short, male and female, found themselves in the middle of the fracas. They covered their bodies, their children's bodies, with their arms, pleading as the mob closed in on them. Some managed to find weapons, beating body after body with no rest in between. Others ran only to be dragged away by cold hands to be hanged, burned, or raped. Bodies flew through shop windows, falling to the floor with a confetti of glass shards. Some people fell, never to get back up as feet trampled them as though they were part of the ground. They waved their arms in the air, trying to get people to stop, but in a mob there is madness, and the arms were just another part of the scenery.

I know it sounds clichéd for me to say that the streets ran red with blood, but they truly did. Blood, among other things, coated the bottom of my boots and splattered my clothes. It fell from above and splashed from below, spraying to all lefts and rights. The more the blood ran, the more treacherous the streets became as people skidded over the slick ground, knowing that one tumble meant almost certain death.

I cannot even say all that I did. It couldn't have been me bashing and hacking and beating. I had never even dreamed that I would kill someone, but at that moment, it was simply living. It was life. My very existence was to harm as many as I could, their bodies bending and breaking in my wake. It was a full lifetime of bloodbath and screams.

After some time the noise died down, the fires burned out, and I found myself fighting the few people who didn't run once the crowd had thinned. My ears rang, and the noise of the riot continued to echo through my head. I stopped and looked around, dropping my wrench as soon as my heart slowed enough to stop my skin from buzzing. I panted, turning slowly to the right and then to the left. I don't know how I made it to my apartment building, but my walk was completely useless. The smoke-scorched brick invaded my vision and grew blurry. I couldn't think anymore. I collapsed to the ground right where I stood, not bothering to adjust my position and letting my body stay where it fell. Darkness fell upon me, and I fell into it with open arms.

* * *

I had a dream that I swam in a pool of rats, and when I woke up, the sensation lingered. I opened my eyes in time to see little pink feet scurry past me. The feet were connected to a large, black blob, and I let my vision adjust, sitting up.

Rats. They were everywhere, feasting on the bodies of the dead. I stood suddenly, brushing the surface of my blood-encrusted shirt with my hands. The vermin scurried from body to body, and more rushed from alleys and walls.

I jumped onto the stoop of my apartment building, letting the rats pass. I looked around, realizing that my home was completely unrecognizable. People had already started burning the bodies of the dead. Nobody even bothered to claim anyone. They were all just bodies.

My apartment building was destroyed. What remained of my books, gone - or at least I assumed they were gone. The building stank too much for me to enter it, and much of the wood had collapsed.

The bricks, cracked and darkened with ash, balanced unsteadily on top of each other, threatening to fall. The air stank of smoke and flesh, burnt crisp and black. It filled my nostrils and mouth, burning the back of my throat. I coughed, the bile in my empty stomach threatening to rise as it bubbled.

This was not the first time that the Immigrant District had seen a riot, but we recovered from that one.

I was only eight-years-old during the last riots. My mother and I hid underneath the kitchen table as the crowd fought, burned, and pillaged in the streets. This riot was much worse.

I stepped off the stoop, my feet sticking to the blood-stained road. There were still signs of life. Moaning, crying, coughing. The wails of men and women over the silence of the dead. Children wandered wet-eyed or lay on the filthy ground shrieking, lost and forgotten. Abandoned in the chaos.

Was this the end of the world? We were all ghosts, spirits drifting through the bloodstained streets and broken buildings, shattered with too many pieces missing to be put back together. Only the dead reminded us of the sickening reality of it all, and as the rats ate away at flesh, brain, and bone, scratching and biting at the meat, rare and red, the truth became frighteningly vivid.

I stared at them until my eyes were clear.

Where could I go? I couldn't stay there; that was clear. This was no place for anyone to live. I headed along the main street, my body aching and bruised, but I wanted to leave this place-it belonged to the Outsider, now.

Moving figures ahead caught my eye. They were dark blue and surprisingly clean. I wanted nothing to do with the Watch, but I had to pass them to leave. They put up wooden barriers, and I reached my hand out to push one aside.

"What the fuck d'you think you're doin'?" one of the guards asked me. I opened my mouth to answer, but he was not interested. "Your fuckin' idiot skull ain't goin' nowhere. 'Regent's orders." He put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Turn the fuck around n' go back to your hole or whatever the fuck you live in."

I stared at him for a moment, but I was too exhausted to argue. I escaped from the riot unharmed, but the life seemed to have drained from me, and I backed away from them, turning into a nearby alley. Where do I go? As I stood there, clueless, the guards' conversation drifted toward me.

"Fuckin' minnows," I heard. "Cryin' about everythin'. The place don't look that much different from before." The two guards laughed. "All of these foreigners is dumb as shit. One lady came up to me this mornin', gesturin' n' tryin' to talk with me, but she didn't speak no Gristian." The other guard laughed again.

"Dumb foreigners." He shook his head.

"Well, I said, 'Look, lady. I don't speak whatever gibberish you're speakin', so if you want somethin', you better talk in Gristian.' Lady keeps sayin' nonsense, and I said. 'Lady, I don't speak - whatever the fuck you dirty savages speak!' Finallly, she leaves, cryin' just like all the other garbage in this dump. These rats, I tell ya - "

I'd heard enough of the conversation. I turned around to head back to my hole, but the conversation of my neighbors was no better than that of the City Watch.

"Did you hear that the poor old woman was murdered? It was probably those damn Pandyssians. I bet'cha they took that poor Oracle's eyes to use for their witchcraft and all their barbaric rituals. Why, if I see one of them running 'round here, I'll kill 'em. I don't care if it's a man, a woman, or a child. They're all the same to me, dirty kyukes."

It sounded so familiar to me.

We tried to kill the rats, but more kept appearing. At least they ate the bodies of the dead. The air was breathable again, but the stench of decay still lingered-an afterscent, hidden beneath the thick staleness of the sluggish breeze. The heat clung to my skin, and I sweated and panted, the moisture instantly evaporating into the air, leaving nothing but salt against my feverish flesh.

The plague hit shortly after the rats, and it hit us fast and hard. Most could not be bothered to help care for the sick, fearful of catching the plague themselves. We wore makeshift masks over our faces, our eyes never meeting. We wandered in tattered clothing, shoeless and sometimes even naked.

I abandoned my blood-soaked and shredded clothes, replacing them with all I could find.

I found a chest in a first-floor apartment. I had been looking for clothes all day, but most were too burnt to wear, and the others stank of smoke. The clothing inside the chest was perfectly preserved, as if it were meant just for me. Puffy white pants with large red polka-dots, and an oversized bright purple jacket with soft, cloth shoes-one blue and one yellow.

"The Gillespie Trio," the trunk read on the top. "Auguste." I did not know what it meant, but I looked like a clown.

They were the only clothes I could find, though. So, I wore them.

Weeks passed with coughing and moaning echoing through the streets, and soon I started to come across weepers. Luckily, they were usually only one or two.

I needed food, but mostly I settled for eating rats, hoping that I didn't get the plague. My hand had started to hurt, but I paid it no mind. It swelled and oozed, and soon I had red streaks on my skin. But what was I to do? At least it wasn't the plague. Nothing was worse than the plague. I would be fine.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shouting. Two women were having an argument.

"Get away from him!" I heard. I finally found the two women in a burnt-out building, sitting by a child, who I assumed had the plague.

One of the women was Morlish, and she eyed me as I entered.

"Finally, someone more civilized. Watch her for me. Make sure she doesn't poison my son." The woman stood, leaving the building.

"Sit," I heard the other woman say, and I sat on the other side of the boy, making sure my mask was up. I faced a plump Serkonan woman. She had placed a towel over the boy's forehead. "I am Speranza. Before this I was a nurse, so I thought I'd help the woman with her son. She doesn't trust me, though." The woman looked down, avoiding eye contact and focusing on the boy instead. "He will die," she told me.

"I know," I replied. "Don't they all?" Speranza stood.

"Yes, they do. I am finished here. There is no use in helping this woman."

"But - " I started. Speranza turned away, walking from the building and leaving me with the boy. She passed by the Morlish woman on her way out, and neither said anything, ignoring each others' presence. The Morlish woman sat across from me.

"My name is Eleanor Ryan," she said. "This is my son, Christopher." I looked down at the boy. His skin had started to turn gray, and already he had lost most of his hair. He coughed.

"Eleanor - "

"That's Mrs. Ryan to you," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. She turned to look outside in the direction Speranza had gone. "Stupid toaster. Doesn't know what she's talking about at all," grumbled Mrs. Ryan. "What was I thinking? She's probably the one who made him worse! He's only gotten worse since she's been taking care of him." Mrs. Ryan spread a fresh washcloth over the boy's forehead. "She's not getting anywhere near him, anymore."

Eventually night came, and I fell asleep near the boy, leaving Mrs. Ryan to care for him. By morning Speranza had returned, and the two women had moved to the street, leaving me alone with Christopher.

Was I supposed to check on him or something? I looked at the boy. He was still gray and hairless. I looked around, eyeing the two women. They seemed to be arguing about something, so I went to get a closer look.

"I had a son, too." I heard. "I know what it is like to be helpless as he lies sick and dying." Speranza stepped toward to Mrs. Ryan.

"You stay away, you - you dirty, evil, toaster! You're a witch. That's what you are - a witch!" Mrs. Ryan pointed at Speranza accusingly. "You've cursed him, you evil thing! Get out!"

"Ms. Ryan, please, you're not thinking clear - " I started, trying to calm the woman.

"And you too, you piece of shit. If you're going to defend that cursed toaster, then you're _just_ as bad. Both of you, get away, now! I don't want you anywhere near my son!" Mrs. Ryan took her knife from the floor, brandishing it clumsily. I was the first to turn away, walking hurriedly down the street and away from the crazy woman.

I had nowhere to go, and so I stopped once Mrs. Ryan was out of sight. Eventually, Speranza caught up to me.

"Thank you," she said, though it seemed more out of duty than actual gratitude. She started to walk away, but turned back around after a few steps, looking me up and down. "Some are getting out through the sewers," she said, glaring at me suspiciously. She turned away again, running from me and never looking back.

"Wait!" I cried. "Please? Just take a look at my - " It was no use. The woman disappeared into an alley, and once again, I was alone.

My entire arm ached now, but if I was able to get out, I would be able to find a doctor. But there was no way the City Watch was ever going to let any of us leave.

They left us here to rot. Quarantined us in our own broken homes, leaving us to feed off of rats and flesh as the food ran out.

The streets had turned a dark brown and had a mud-like substance over them, in some places thin and chalky and in others, clotted and spongy.

To stay was to die. I had not met another person without the plague since Mrs. Ryan and Speranza, and I did not expect to. Even the buildings seemed to be infected as coughing cascaded from their many windows, and the moaning started as well.

I delayed my trip through the sewers for another few days. I had become feverish. Was it the plague or my arm? I didn't know. All I wanted to do was lie down in the streets and die, but I knew that if I was going to be cured, I had to get to the outside.

The plague had died down, the coughing becoming less frequent. The moans of the sick were replaced by the moans of weepers.

Then, one day I awoke to complete silence. There was no more chaos, no more moaning, no more crying. Still, I knew I had to go. I forced myself to stand and to walk, despite my fever, and found my way into the sewers.

Luckily, it seemed to be lit by lamps from people who had already traveled through the tunnels. I followed the lanterns, losing track of any time, just forcing myself to walk. Was it nighttime, yet? I couldn't tell.

_Just keep walking,_ I told myself. Every place seemed to look the same, and I found that my mind would sometimes leave me, and I would awaken, still walking, though I had no memory of the trip.

I truly believed that there was no danger as I made my way through the cramped tunnels, but then they arrived. Suddenly lucid, my ears perked.

It was the buzzing I heard first. It was thick and sharp, each short buzz overlapping the other until the air seemed to vibrate. It tingled my skin. Footsteps and groans were next. Harsh, labored breaths. I was frozen as they approached, the sounds growing louder and echoing throughout the arched chambers of the sewers. Their feet _squished_ and _shliped_ , _squished_ and _shliped_ on the slime-covered ground.

I was wasting time. I knew that if I let them get too close, they would cut off my path, forcing me to navigate blindly through the tunnels, with their turns and twists, but all my body wanted to do is run. Go back the way I came and die as the others died.

Because if they got me, I will be torn apart. Ripped open and gutted, my limbs torn from me, as though I were a roast chicken. They would throw my parts on the ground and trample them, until they were nothing but rotting, bloody chunks, unrecognizable among the dead and the dying and the stink of the sewers.

I needed to move. Fast.

The round tunnel made it almost impossible for me to move silently, so I ran-as fast as I dared. The ground was slick, and I nearly fell more than a few times, my fingers clinging to the cracks in the bricks with a grip I never thought I had.

I heard their bodies moving, now, and the shuffling of their clothes and they pushed past one another. They were alive as ever and cried as though they wished they were dead. I know I sure did.

I reached an intersection, one tunnel leading to the right, and the other going forward. I took a step, preparing to continue, but a figure emerged from the shadows. Its eyes were red and dripping, and they widened upon noticing my presence. The weeper reached out for me, grabbing at my clothes and then vomiting black sludge.

Panic overtook me, and I pushed her away.

A barbaric sound emerged from my throat, and I pushed through the accumulating crowd of weepers. They shrieked and moaned as they saw me, clawing at my clothes and skin, tearing through fabric and flesh.

I would not be the roast chicken. Or a raw, bloody, chicken for that matter.

They tore what was left of my clown suit away, and I crawled between their legs, avoiding their greedy hands. I was lost in a tangle of limbs, blood and vomit dripping from above and flies swarming around me. I clawed at one's leg, and the flesh, rotten and gray, peeled away easily. I gagged, holding back the bile rising in my throat and pushed ahead, even as my skin opened as it was scratched and pulled away.

"No, no, no," I heard myself breathe. I could see light, and I headed toward it, crawling on my naked belly, through the weepers. The ones who stepped on me fell and then grabbed at my legs, and I kicked at them, tripping more weepers in the process. Soon, they were a confused mess, tangled under legs and bodies, and this was my chance. I forced myself to stand and then ran. I could hear some of them yelling after me, but they were lost in the crowd.

I ran and ran, afraid to stop until there was a gate behind me. It was only when I fell that I realized that the weepers were long gone. I panted, lying on the filthy stone. My back burned, I was covered in vomit and blood, and I was naked. I wiped the vomit away, noting the larva wriggling in the thick, black liquid.

I _had_ to have been infected by that point. I _had_ to have the plague.

"Dammit," I heard myself say. "Dammit!" My eyes grew hot and moist, but I held the tears in. I could feel the frustration closing in, but I was so close. At least I would not have to die in there.

The surface was a welcome sight, and I breathed in the air of Dunwall. It had a stench of a different kind, but it was the stench of home.

I did not know the neighborhood, and it was mostly abandoned. It seemed the plague found its way there. I found some weeper bodies among the dead wrapped in sheets, but there did not seem to be any danger there.

I found a dead counter among the alleys of the winding slum, and he took me to his officer.

"Well, what is this?" the Officer jeered. He laughed openly, the two guards behind him guffawing as well. "It's naked and covered in filth." He turned to the dead counter. "You could've just taken it to the slaughterhouse. The City Watch doesn't usually deal with escaped animals." The Officer and the guards laughed again, but I could not find it in myself to be angry or even embarrassed. I was too exhausted, though I could still hang my head in shame.

"Here ya go, fella," one of the guards said, lumbering forward and ripping the cap off the dead counter's head. He threw it at me. I stared as it hit the muddy ground.

"Pick it up," said the Officer. "I can't have you corrupting the innocent girls on the way to the office." I took the hat, covering myself with it the best I could. The guards burst into laughter this time, trailing behind me as I followed the Officer.

* * *

I am in a cage, as I have been for the past month. The City Watch told me that they would take me to a doctor and then to Coldridge Prison, but I am still here in a small cage in one of the many offices of the City Watch.

The guards are all sick, and most have disappeared, leaving the Officer and I.

"Get out," he says, coughing as he opens my cage. "Just - just get out of here." He wheezes, leaning back against the wall, and I can see that his skin is pale and gray.

But I don't need to be told twice. I leave.

I am free again, and I nearly laugh, because I know it is a lie. I put my hand to my chest and grimace. It is spongy and smells of puss. And it _hurts_.

The infection spreads, and the skin on my body rots. Where there only used to be a cut, there is now black, wrinkled flesh in its place, surrounded by red and brown spots, festering away.

Right. It will all be okay.

I am as free as I will ever be.

The powdery white face of the Outsider flashes before my eyes, and I take my final bow.

The Outsider sits back and laughs, applauding us all on a performance well-done.


	15. Now I Got My A's and Z's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for citywatchoverseer

 

City Watch Guard

 

“ _He taught himself how to read.”_

 

 

There _oh... uh..._ _once_ was a cat named Ollie who lived in a _co-_ cozy _ho-hose... hoss..._ a _house_ , a _cozy house_ , with his Mama, Papa, _Bro-Bruh_ -Brother, and... Sister. But Ollie was no _oh-or-di-na-ry_ cat. He was very _c-_ curious and... _oh-_ often got into _tr... tr..._ _trou-ble_.

_Un... One_ cold _w-win-ter_ _eh... ehven... even... e-ven-ing_ , it _beg-an_ to _s-snow_...

...and _s-snow_ , and snow, and SNOW. _Haha_.

“Oh, boy!” said Ollie. “My _f-first w-win-ter!_ ”

Ollie _le-leapt_ _on-to_ the... the, _uh..._ the _w-win-dow-sill,_ his _eye-eyes_ _fo-fol-low-ing_ the _stra-strange_ white dots as they _flo-a... flo-floated_ to the ground. He put his paws up to the cold _gla-glass_ , _rai... rais... rais-ing_ himself up on his two _hi-hind_ legs to get a _bet-better_ look. Brother and Sister played _ou-out-side_ , _thro-throwing_ _hand... fuls_ of white _po-po-pow-powder_ at each other, their _ch... cheeek... cheeks_ and noses red and _ro-round_. Ollie's tail _swis... swis-sh... swished_ with, _oh boy,_ _ex... exit... exit-me-excitement_ as he watched them.

“How I would love to play in the snow,” Ollie said, his eyes filled with _de-des-desire_. “I would _buh... buh... bur... burr-ow_ under it _oo... uh-until_ I found the _per-fect_ spot, warm and dark.”

The cat _til-tilt-tilted_ his head back, _pee-king_ at the door. Papa sat in his big chair reading a book, and Ollie could hear Mama in the _kit-kitchen_.

Surely, they would not _not-notice_...

Ollie _ju-jumped_ to the _gro-ground_ and _cro... croch... croached... no, crouched, he crouched_ low, _ti-tip-tip-toe-ing_ his way to the front door where the _ch-child-ren_ would be _re... ret-returning_ at any _mo-ment,_ and when they _open-opened_ the door, he would _spr... sprin... sprint_ out into the snow and _bur-bury_ himself in it before they could catch him.

He heard _fa-faint_ _la... lau... log... log-ha... lag... la... laugh-laughter_ as the _ch-children_ _ne-nea-neared_ the door and his ears _per... perk... perked_ as he heard _moo... muh... muffleh... muffle... muffled_ _sto-stomp-ing_.

“Ready... Ready...” he said to himself. He _dar-dared_ not move. It was almost time.

The door _click-clicked_ as one of the children turned the _dork-door-doorknob_ , the door _crack-ing_ open a _mom-moment_ later. Ollie _star-star-ted_ to _change-charge_ but stopped _sud-den-ly_ as the cold breeze _cau... caused_ his skin to _shiv-shiver_. The children _enter-ed_ the house, _brus-brushing_ white powder from their coats.

“The door will close soon,” Ollie said. “This is my last chance!”

He took a deep breath, _cr-crouched_ low, and _chan-charged_ outside.

 

* * *

 

I let my arm drop, still holdin' the open book between my fingers, and sigh.

When I got this book from the library, the lady told me that this was for kids, but _Ollie the Cat's First Winter_ by T.J. Brownstone ain't no easy reader. I can feel myself gettin' tired, and my head kinda hurts.

I probably shouldn't be readin' durin' my shift, but it can get real borin' just standin' here waitin' for somethin' to happen. It's kinda rainy today, so the market ain't too crowded, so that means no fights over the last fresh fish to break up, no youngsters stealin' sweets to chase after, and no pretty ladies to holler at. Nope, nothin' to do but just stare at the sky... or read if you know how.

I hear laughter from in front of me and spot two boys in worn clothes whisperin' to each other. I guess the rain didn't keep _everyone_ away. They stop, the larger one takin' a few steps towards me.

“Hey, aren't you reading _Ollie the Cat?_ ” The boy looks up at me with tight lips and somethin' that ain't just innocent curiosity hidden behind his eyes.

“Yeah, what about it?” I say, pullin' my shoulders back. “Shouldn't you kids be at home anyways?”

“It's a free city,” the boy says. “We're just walking home from school.”

“Yeah, well, keep walkin'. I gotta job to do,” I tell him.

“You didn't look like you were doing your job. You looked like you were reading an _Ollie the Cat_ book.” The little brat smirks.

“Well, you kids just don't know any better. Now, scram.”

The boy snorts, his mouth tight and his face red. He looks back at the other, who has the same expression on his face, like he thinks somethin's funny.

“That's a _kids'_ book,” the boy says. “Like for babies. I read all the _Ollie the Cat_ books when I was nine.” He turns to look at his friend behind him, who giggles.

“Yeah,” says the smaller boy. “Me too. Isn't that the one where Ollie goes outside in the winter and freezes--”

“Hey!” I scream. “Don't give it away! I ain't read the whole thing yet!”

The boys jump at the sound of my voice, but pretty soon they ain't scared no more and start laughin'.

“Wow, City Watch Guards really _are_ dumb!” The taller boy says. His little friend giggles along with him, but I'm about done with their shit.

I draw my sword and lunge towards 'em, like I'm about to attack.

“Yeah, keep laughin' when you're in damn pieces on the ground!”

The boys scream, scurryin' away like rats, and I watch until they're out of sight, takin' a deep breath to calm myself.

“It's okay, Murray,” I say. “They're just a bunch of spoiled kids.”

That's right. They're a bunch of spoiled schoolboys. Not everyone had the money to go to school when they was kids.

 

I grew up during the Morley Insurrection, when spyin' on your neighbor, makin' sure they wasn't helpin' the Morlish (or the “Morleyans” as we was s'posed to call 'em, just to piss 'em off), or that, stars forbid, they was Minnows themselves, was much more important than goin' to school or doin' any kinda work that wasn't helpin' the Empire win against the rebels.

There was plenty of jobs with the war on, and the factory fatcats was glad to get their hands on any children, so they could work 'em hard. An eighteen-hour workday, each and every day, is what I remember from my childhood. But there was bread to eat and bunks to sleep in. Sure, they was dirty, but they was indoors. I sent my pay home to my parents so they could take care of my sisters and brothers who was too young to work.

So, no, I didn't have no time to read like the little brats these days, but that don't make 'em better than me. Hell, I'm better than them, since I learned how to read all on my own. That's right, all by myself. No one helped me learn my letters.

Now that I know how to read, though, there's plenty around to practice with. It's crazy how many signs they got posted 'round the city, and there's even more than usual in the marketplace with words like “FRESH FISH” “HOMEMADE SOAP” “GARDEN VEGETABLES” “RARE FRUITS” and “BAKERY”. I tried to read them all when I first started learnin' my letters, but now those signs are so easy to read, I can understand 'em all in just a second or two.

I've learned a lot from readin' posters on the walls and such, too. Like the recruitment ads for the City Watch say guards are s'posed to make a whole _four_ coins a day, and Officers make six coins. I ain't never seen more than three coins in a day, and lately they've been givin' me just two. I told this to the others so maybe we could get together and ask for our real pay, but they just told me to quit bein' so smart.

 

“You read it on a poster?” Jackson was the first one to speak when I told the boys about our pay.

“Yeah, we're s'posed to be gettin' four whole coins a day,” I 'member foldin' my arms and leanin' against my bunk, thinkin' I was somethin'. Like I was gonna start some kinda movement, leadin' all the guards in the Watch through the streets holdin' up signs. But that attitude didn't last for long.

“I think he's just makin' that up,” another one of the guards said from across the room. “You can't even read anyways.”

“I learned,” I said. “Well, I'm learnin', but the poster really does say that. There's one right next door. Just come with me, and--”

“You tryin' to get us fired, Murray? Quit bein' so smart.” Jackson turned toward the door. “Now, I'm gonna go steal me some food, and then I know a certain lady who's waitin' for these two coins in my pouch. You all comin'?”

The others followed Jackson, leavin' me alone. Just a year ago, I never would'a passed up a night with a girl, but sometimes a man just wants somethin' more.

I'd thought that by learnin' to read that maybe I'd feel better about myself or the world or somethin' like that, but I don't know. Now instead of others makin' fun of me for bein' dumb, my own fellow guards make fun of me for bein' too smart.

But now that I can read faster, I'm startin' to get why there's people that actually _like_ to read. Some books are really interestin'.

 

My shift ends, and I head back to the bunks while the others go for a drink.

I wish that boy from earlier today hadn't told me what would happen to Ollie the Cat. So, he freezes to death? I take the book out of my bag, flippin' through it and lookin' at the pictures. On one page, I can see Ollie racin' out the front door into the snow. I turn the page and see a picture of a sad little cat, all curled up in a ball, with icicles hangin' from its fur.

Poor Ollie.

But the book's not over. There's _more_. I turn the page and gasp. Papa carries Ollie into the house. He's alive!

I turn the page again. Now he's in front of the fireplace, and on the next page, he's smilin' and warm, and on the next—wait.

I slam the book shut.

No, I gotta _read_ it. I can't just look at the pictures.

 

* * *

 

Cold and wet, Ollie had no _energ-energy_ to run from Papa and, _in-stead_ , _curl-ed... curled_ up in his arms, _shiv-shivering_ _v-vio-vio-lent-ly_. He cried when Papa tried to put him down, hanging on tight to his clothes with his sharp claws. _Fin-finally_ , Papa _man-aged... managed_ to set Ollie on the floor, where Sister and Brother waited for him with two _flu-ffy_ _to-wels_. They dried him off as well as they could, and handed him to Mama, who _w_ - _wrap-ped... wrapped_ him in a soft _blan... blanket_.

“Let's put you _some-place_ nice and warm,” she said, _cudd-ling_ him in her arms. Papa picked up a box and took a _woo... wood-en_ stick from it. Ollie watched the stick, which _nor-normally_ , would have looked very fun to play with, but he was far too cold to play. With a quick _g-g-gues... gest... gesture_ , Papa stuck it against the box, making _o-rang... o-range_ light come from it.

“How strange,” Ollie said, _tilt-ing_ his head to the side. _Thog...though_ Papa had now _cau-caught_ his _at-ten-ti-on,_ he was still much too cold to do anything but watch _laz-lazily_ from Mama's arms.

Papa put the stick into a hole _be-hind_ a _grat-grating_. Ollie had never _not-not-noticed_ that hole before. It looked like a great place to hide. But Ollie was too cold to think of _hid-ing_ there now.

_Wips-wisps_ of smoke and then orange waves grew from the _bo-ttom_ of the hole, _con-sum-ing_ the large chunks of wood in its _in-ter-i-or_. Ollie watched the flames. They were like nothing he had ever seen before. Mama took him closer and set him down, and Papa _replac-ed... replaced_ the _grat-ing_ , _ob-scur-ing_ the _dan-king... dancing_ _fig-ur-es... figures_. Ollie was _dis-a-ppoin-ted_. He wanted to watch them dance, but he was too cold to a _rg-argue_. He lay in front of the fireplace, feeling the _warm-th_ flow from it. Oh, how good that warmth would feel _ag-ainst_ his skin. How good it would be to bury himself in warm orange waves.

Ollie stood, _get-ting_ closer to the fireplace, but Mama _st-stopped_ him.

“No, no, Ollie. That is fire. It is hot. You cannot get too close, or you will get _burn-ed... burned._ ”

But Ollie did not _un-der-stand_. What was hot? Like a hot _sum-mer's_ day? He could almost _puh-purr_ , _think-ing_ of the past summer when he lay out under the sun, while Mama stood _near-by_ _fan-fanning_ herself with her hand.

“ _W-hew,_ it's so hot today,” Ollie _re-mem-ber-ed... remembered_ her saying. “It feels like I'm _burn-ing_ up out here.”

So, hot was not bad at all! Mama _mig-might_ not like it, but Ollie _lov-loved_ when it was hot.

 

* * *

 

Hearin' voices outside, I look up from the text and close the book. The boys are back, drunk and loud as usual. I have a bad feelin' about this story, but I'll have to finish it later.

But I'm so worried about Ollie that I can't even sleep.

 

* * *

 

That mornin', the boys and I reach the marketplace and then go our separate ways, heading to our posts. Up ahead is Lee, who does the shift before me. He's singin' a song. I can't make it out at first, but as I get closer I hear the familiar tune of the A's and Z's song.

“A, B, C, D, E, N, G/ _haych,_ I, J, K, _elementally_ ,” he sings.

I can't help but laugh.

“It's not 'elementally'. It's 'L, M, N, O, P,'” I almost say, but I don't wanna come off as a smart-ass.

It's funny how easy it is for me to sing that song now. When I first tried to learn it, I couldn't understand it. It was just a bunch'a sounds. How could anyone memorize it?

I 'member first hearin' it bein' sung by a bunch'a little kids goin' to school. They walked behind their teacher in a straight line, and she sang right along with them. It was the weirdest song I'd ever heard. It didn't have no words in it – at least not until, _“Now I know my A's and Z's/Tell me what you think of me.”_

Now, I was at least smart enough to know that A's and Z's meant letters. So that's what all that gibberish was. The kids was learnin' their letters!

Every mornin', I tried to listen to the whole song, but I never caught the whole thing, and I still didn't know what any of it meant. Finally, one day I just went up and asked.

I 'member the teacher saw me comin' and slowed down before she put her arm out to shield the children.

“Hello, Ma'am,” I said, rememberin' to be polite, of course.

“Good day,” the teacher said. She eyed me _real_ cautious, like she was scared I was gonna attack her or somethin'. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I mean, yeah. I was, uh--” I took a deep breath. “I just wanna know what that song is you're singin'.”

“What song are we singing?” The teacher's eyes got wide, and she looked at me like there was somethin' funny. “It's the A's and Z's song. We're reciting the alphabet.”

“So, that's letters, right?” I asked.

“That's, uh, that's correct, yes.” The teacher nodded. “Um, is there anything else?” she asked, after I didn't say nothin' for a moment.

“Could I learn it, too?”

The teacher opened her mouth and closed it again.

“I – sure. I mean, I could.” She stopped to think for a moment. “We could use an escort on our way to the school. I much prefer walking my students there to letting them go by themselves, but I would feel much safer with an actual guard to protect us.”

I knew I wasn't supposed to just leave my post, but I only had to walk them to school and then I'd be right back. Plus, there was other guards nearby.

“Sure,” I agreed. “And you'll teach me the song?”

“You can learn right along with us,” she said. She took a piece of paper from a bag hanging on her shoulder.

“Oh, I can't read,” I said, lookin' at all the funny symbols on the paper.

“Well, each one of those is a letter. So, here's A, B, C...” she pointed to each as she said it. “Let's get going. Children? A's and Z's, but let's sing it very slowly so... Sorry, I didn't get your name.”

“Murray,” I told her.

“And I'm Helena Delaney,” she said, smilin' kinda quick and then turnin' to the kids. “Okay, let's sing slowly so that Murray can read along with us.”

The moment I heard her say those words, I couldn't help but think how strange it sounded. _“...so that Murray can read along with us.”_ Me. _Readin'._ How crazy was that? But I guess it was also kind of excitin'.

 

* * *

 

The school kids' voices interrupt my thoughts, and I wave Lee off and take his place.

“Murray! Hi, Murray! Good morning, Murray!” the kids all say as the line approaches with their teacher, Miss Delaney, at the front.

“Good morning, Murray,” she says, smiling.

“Mornin' Miss Delaney. Mornin' kids,” I say, givin' them all a big wave.

“Shall we carry on?” says Miss Delaney, and they head off, the A's and Z's song startin' automatically as I line up behind them.

 

“So, Murray, how is the reading going?” Miss Delaney asks.

We've arrived at the school, and all the kids are gettin' ready for the day and sittin' at their desks. I notice the familiar A's and Z's chart at the front of the classroom. I can recognize all the letters real easy now, and to think I used to not know what any of it meant.

“It's goin' pretty fine,” I answer. “I'm readin' a book about this cat. His name's Ollie.”

“Oh, _Ollie the Cat_. A bit too advanced for my children, but I'm still very familiar with those books. Which one are you reading?”

I lift up my helmet to rub the back of my head.

“It's the one where it's snowin' and Ollie goes outside.”

“Oh, that one.” Miss Delaney frowns and shakes her head. “Those books are always so tragic for an animal lover like me, but that one was especially sad.”

“Don't tell me!” I nearly yell, holding my hands up. “I haven't finished it yet.”

“Okay, okay!” Miss Delaney chuckles, putting her hands out. “Calm down, I won't spoil it for you.”

“Thanks,” I say, relaxing my arms. “Well, I gotta go back to my post. I'll see you tomorrow.” I turn to the kids. “Bye, kids!”

“Bye, Murray!” They all say, and I turn to leave while Miss Delaney starts class.

Time to get back to Ollie.

 

* * *

 

The flames _wigg-led wiggle-wiggled_ and _pop-popped_ , dancing in a way that made them almost _ir-re-sis-ti-ble.._. _irre-sistible_ to a cat like Ollie. He watched the _emb-ers_ float into the air and disappear as he _w-hipp-ed... w-hipped_ his tail back and _for-th_ , his eyes _con-cen-tra-ting_ _in-ten-se-ly_ on the _tan-ta-li-zing_ fire.

But how would he get past the grating? He would have to move it, but _sure-ly_ Mama or Papa would stop him before he could get past.

He _sc-scanned_ the room, _noticing-noting_ that the children had gone to bed and Mama and Papa sat _do-doz-dozing_ off on the nearby sofa. So, he stood, _war-i-ly_ stepping forward, his eyes locked on the nearly-sleeping couple. _Creep-ing_ toward the _bar-bar-ri-er_ _s-se-pa-ra-ting_ him and the fire, he put his claws through the grating and _yank-yanked_ it right down. It fell to the floor with a loud _cla-clank_ that nearly made him dart in the other _di-rec-tion_ , but he _clamed-calmed_ himself and jumped on the grating, ready to make the final _po-pounce_.

“Ollie! No!”

The sound had _wo-ken_ Mama and Papa, and they _stoo-d_ , making their way to him. Ollie _pa-nic-ked... panicked_. He didn't have much time. The warmth from the fire _toa-toast-toasted_ his skin like a hot summer's day, but he wanted those _fla-mes flames_ for himself. He pounced, ready to trap the _w-rig-gling w-riggling_ fire under his paws, as Mama _sc-rea-m-ed... sc-reamed_ from behind him.

But soon he was the one _sc-rea-ming_.

“Hot! Hot! Hot!” he _scree-ched... screeched_. The fire was too hot. He _bat-ted_ at the flames _co-ver-ing_ his body, trying to keep them away, but it was no use as the fire _cha-char-red... charred_ his _bea-u-tiful_ fur, _turn-ing_ it to the color of ash. Ollie screamed and screamed and screamed until his _black-en-ed... blackened_ body went still, his life having _fl-fled_ his _us-use-useless_ _co-corpse_.

 

The End.

* * *

 

_I can't believe it._

“Hey, Murray, you comin'?”

_What in the Void just happened?_

It's the end of my shift, and my buddies are all ready to go, but I clutch the book in my hand, my heart banged up and all but broken.

“No, you all go on. I'm gonna take a walk,” I say and push past 'em without sayin' another word.

You know, I figured things wouldn't turn out good for Ollie, but still the endin's left me kinda down. I got just as much into that book as someone would get into a story bein' told 'round the fire--

The _fire._

Emotion hits me and leaves me with a bad feelin' in my stomach. Why'd that cat have to be so _damn stupid?_

I curse Ollie and T. J. Brownstone and the damn librarian that gave me the book and the goddamn library that kept the book on its shelves like it wasn't nothin' but another kid's story, just like the rest.

 

“Murray, what are you doing here?”

I walk into the classroom, and seein' the look on Miss Delaney's face, I let the tears fall.

“Is something wrong?” Miss Delaney asks. Her eyes get real wide, and she looks from side to side, but I'm too busy blubberin' to notice.

“Ollie _died,_ ” I sob, sniffling between words. “He... just jumped into the fireplace... and burned up.”

I look up at Miss Delaney, who, for just a moment, smirks before putting on a sympathetic face.

“It ain't funny,” I cry. “Why are you laughin'? Don't laugh!”

“Oh, Murray,” Miss Delaney approaches, putting her hand on my arm. “You didn't know?”

“Didn't know what?” I swallow, trying to keep my sobs at bay.

“Murray... Ollie dies in _every_ book.”

The tears stop, and I stare at her through blurry eyes.

“W-What?”

“The cat dies in every book.” Miss Delaney replies. “That's the theme of the series. It's supposed to teach you not to be so curious that you get yourself into trouble.”

“I... wait a— _What?_ ”

Miss Delaney smiles a bit and then giggles, taking a handkerchief from her pocket.

“You poor thing!” she says, dryin' my eyes. I take the cloth from her, rubbin' it all over my face, wet with wasted tears.

“It's the same cat in every book? But how does he come back to life?” I hold up my finger. “Wait, wait, I know this. Cats got nine lives, right? So, as long as he doesn't die a whole nine times, he's okay.”

“Not quite,” Miss Delaney chuckles. “I think the trick here is that Ollie isn't a real cat. He's just a book character.”

“Well, that ain't realistic.” I sigh. “I could write a better story than that.”

“Maybe,” says Miss Delaney. She raises an eyebrow. “Are you looking to be a writer now?”

I laugh, feelin' my eyes dry up. Look at me, cryin' over a book.

“Oh no, nothin' like that. I just wanna read a better story. Somethin' happier.”

“Well, the library's still open. Maybe I can help you find some books you'd like to read.”

I nod, thinkin' of the possibilities—plus maybe Miss Delaney has a better taste in books than the librarian.

“Yeah, that'd be nice. Just no sad endin's,” I say. “And no cats.”

 


End file.
